


bildungsroman

by harlequin87



Category: Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 53
Words: 205,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26009878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequin87/pseuds/harlequin87
Summary: [ˈbɪldʊŋzrəʊˌmɑːn]NOUNa novel dealing with one person's formative years or spiritual education.Alternatively: an exceedingly slow burn AU in which George plays league. As they say, the course of true love never did run smooth.
Relationships: Owen Farrell/George Ford
Comments: 318
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

If Owen were to be asked about the first time he met George – and he is, at basically every interview he does when the season starts up again – he would talk about cold winter afternoons and muddy black shirts and a boy with bright, intense eyes.

That’s where it starts, but – bar more than a few gaps – that’s not where it ends. Not by a long shot.

*

“Good work, boys,” the coach booms as Owen and his team form a loose circle after the final whistle. “You really showed them what you’re made of, yeah? Really nice effort, especially in the last ten minutes. Matt, Henry, you two were exceptional. And Faz – excellent defence. Almost like you knew someone was coming to watch.”

He tilts his head towards the touchline and Owen follows his gaze. If it’s one of the England U16 coaches, he’s not too fussed. They’ve been hanging around his matches for the past few months, and he tries not to let it get to him. It’s more important that he does a good job for the club, his lads, the team.

Only it’s not England scouts. It’s his dad.

He wants to shrink back into the ring of sweaty young teenagers, where he knows where he stands, but the coach is already pushing him out towards his dad. He doesn’t come to watch often, usually too busy playing himself at weekends, but when he does, he likes to see his childhood club putting on a show. Wigan Warriors might be the team he plays for, but Wigan St Patricks is where his dad’s heart lies.

Owen stumbles forward, studs catching on a stray tuft of grass. He makes sure to keep his eyes up, shoulders back, like Andy has always coached him. _Don’t look like a pussy_ , he would say. _Let them see you mincing around like that, and the match is half-lost already._

“Hi, dad,” he says, voice cracking, as he stands before his father.

Andy catches his chin, brings his head up so their eyes meet. If he can feel Owen trembling, he probably thinks it’s from the cold. “Good game, son,” he says. “Passing off the left hand needs some work, but it’ll be light for a few more hours.”

“Thanks,” Owen whispers meekly. The other parents on the touchline are hugging their sons, singing their praises. What he’d give to be in their place right now. “Did you like my try in the first half?”

“I didn’t see it,” Andy says, a rare tinge of remorse colouring his voice. “I’m sure it was good, though – if it was anything like the Saddleworth stand-off, you’re doing fine.”

Owen looks over to the other stand-off on instinct. He can’t help wanting to resent the boy, earning such easy praise from his dad after half a game. He’s so small, his mum looking like she’s smothering him with her hugs despite the loss. He was loud, Owen has to admit, but that’s not everything.

(He was loud, and fast, and scarily good. Owen knows a threat when he sees one.)

“Go on, Owen, time to shake hands,” his dad says, breaking him from his ruminations.

“Yes, dad,” he says, and joins on to the end of the Wigan line. The Saddleworth players all look dejected, not even trying to meet his eyes as they mutter their congratulations and squeeze his fingers.

All bar one, that is. The small stand-off meets his eyes with a steely glare and says, “Well played.” Owen is taken aback by the intensity in his eyes, like he’s plotting revenge already. He feels like he needs to remind the boy that they’re only teenagers in a club game. It’s not exactly a Test match.

Then again, if he’d lost, he’d probably be doing the same. “You too,” he says, trying to put more feeling into it than with the other sixteen losing players. “That last set was so hard to defend.”  
There’s a bit more of a spark in the boy’s eyes now, flashing grey. “Just wait until next time, then,” he says, tilting his head up slightly.

It’s not very intimidating from someone about three inches shorter than him, but Owen appreciates the effort. He’s making himself more memorable than the rest of his team, in their mud-covered anonymity. “I’m Owen,” he says, on a whim.  
“George,” the boy replies. “Something tells me you’re worth remembering.”

Most people would dismiss it as typical teenage posturing, but Owen can see in his eyes that this boy is different. He’s new to the area, not part of the age group around Wigan and Oldham that has grown up playing each other, and he’s making an impact. County trials are in a few weeks – maybe he’ll see him there.

“You doing county?” George asks, pulling him to the side, out of the line where it’s backing up behind them.  
“Yeah, you? Good opportunity to show off for England U16s, y’know.”

George pulls a face. “U16s? I’m thirteen, mate, I haven’t got a chance.”  
Owen does a double-take. “Bloody hell, that explains a lot. But seriously, you’re so good. They’d be mad not to at least look at you.”

The younger boy shrugs, looks at the churned-up grass of the pitch between them and scuffs his feet. “I don’t think I’d be allowed, to be honest. I’m playing up an age group anyway; it’s probably too dangerous for me to do that at county.”

“Well, I’ll see you next time we play your lot, then,” Owen concedes. He feels bad for George. He’s undoubtedly good enough, but he’s just too young. Maybe in a few years- He cuts himself off. He’s known this kid’s name for about five minutes. He shouldn’t get attached.

“See you around, Owen,” George says with a small smile.

“Bye, mate,” Owen says, patting him on the shoulder before joining the flock of Wigan players traipsing back to the showers. He’s probably going to get an earful from his dad when he gets home about being too friendly with the opposition, but something tells him that George is worth paying attention to.

*

The next time they meet is – surprise, surprise – on a rugby pitch. It’s a month later, and they’re both dressed in different club colours, union replacing league as their focus for a few short hours. Owen’s jogging out for warmups in the midst of his team, when the small figure that’s been – not haunting his dreams exactly, but more occupying a disproportionate amount of his waking thoughts, is running sprints up and down the five-metre line in the opposition half.

He doesn’t manage to break away from the team before the match, and that’s most likely a good thing. Team comes first after all, no matter how interesting the other fly-half may be. Afterwards, though, when George’s team has resoundingly beaten Owen’s, he doesn’t mind loitering with him at the side of the handshake line. It helps that his dad’s not around.

“I didn’t know you played union as well,” Owen says, the first thing that comes into his head spilling out of his mouth.

George rolls his eyes, folds his arms. “You know almost nothing about me. Yes, I play union as well. I think we’re the only two round here that do both, at least in this age group.”

“I’m fifteen,” Owen offers, choosing to ignore the snark in the other boy’s voice. “That’s a fact – I’ll trade you for one.”

“Alright,” George says. One corner of his mouth creeps up, and Owen counts that as a win. “My dad played for Wigan in the eighties. Beat that.”

Owen grins, shark-like. If only George knew he’s picked the one thing that Owen can beat him on, any day of the week. “My dad played for Wigan last season, and my uncle’s the captain.” He resists the urge to stick his tongue out. He’s not twelve.

George takes half a step back, mostly involuntarily. “You’re – fucking hell. Owen Farrell?”

He might not be twelve anymore, but Owen enjoys having his ego stroked as much as the next teenager. “That’s me,” he says. Somehow, he can ignore his dad’s bad points when he helps him get this kind of reaction out of the other boys.

“I’m George Ford,” George says. “My dad’s Mike. I think he coaches your dad at Saracens?” It takes a moment before they’re both laughing, the earlier prickliness all but gone. What are the chances that they’d meet independently of their dads’ professional connections? If Owen were more impressionable, he’d call it fate, or something equally wishy-washy.

“Hurry up, Faz!” one of his teammates yells, and he stiffens up.

“I’ve got to go,” he says, oddly sad at the thought. Normally he loves a warm shower after a game, and rumour has it that the club are doing turkey and roast potatoes for the post-match food.

“Bye, _Faz_ ,” George says, a touch of sarcasm creeping into his voice.

“Bye – what is it, Fordy?” George nods, and they both grin again. “Rugby lads are so inventive, eh?” Then his teammate is calling for him again, and he turns and runs away.

*

They talk a few more times after games, and then George disappears from the handshake lines. Owen asks around at school and with his mates, but nobody’s much interested in some dual-code Year 9.  
  
He really doesn’t want to do it, but he’s outweighed by a curiosity and – whisper it – a concern for this acquaintance he’s made on Saturday and Sunday afternoons after a few hours of smashing into each other.

“Dad,” he says one day in early May, “can I ask you something?” He’s waited for the day after a win to ask, knowing that it’s his best chance to ask and receive a useful answer. His dad’s always more malleable after a victory. Andy grunts assent from where he’s slumped in an armchair, eyes still fixed on the television. (It’s showing Castleford-Leeds. Never a good match, in Owen’s opinion.)

He takes the risk of stepping closer. “I was wondering – you know Mike Ford?” He wants to slap himself. Of course his dad knows Mike, they work together. There’s no reaction from the armchair, so he’s likely got away with it. “I’ve played against his son George a few times this season, and he hasn’t been around for the last month for Saddleworth.” Somehow he can sense Andy’s temper rising, and he rushes out, “It’s just because he’s really good, and I’ve been missing the competition.”

His dad’s hands unclench from the arms of the chair. “And what, you want me to ask Mike where he’s been?” He still hasn’t looked away from the screen.

Owen nods anyway. “If it’s not too much of a fuss.”

Andy sighs, holds out a hand. “Get my phone. I’ll text him.”

Owen rushes through to the kitchen and grabs the phone out of the drawer, heart pounding. He scuttles back to the living room and drops it in his dad’s hand. Andy takes it and flips it open. He pecks laboriously at the keys, finally sending it with a triumphant smile. “I’ve asked where the kid is. I’ll tell you when he replies.”

“Thanks, dad,” Owen answers, making sure to do the right amount of bowing and scraping.

“It’s nothing, lad. Now, go and ask your mother when tea’s going to be ready.” Owen nods obediently, going back and forth between his parents like he’s doing a shuttle run.

After five minutes of that, he allows himself to go up to his room. He’s not _attached_ to George – that would be ridiculous; they’ve spoken about five times. He can’t deny to himself that he is worried, though. Their age group is the one with the biggest height and weight differences, as some boys hit their growth spurts and some lag behind. George, at – well, fourteen now, he supposes, is at an extra disadvantage. No amount of skill with ball in hand could get him out of being tackled by someone twice his size.

To take his mind off it, he sits down at his desk and boots up his computer. If he’s lucky, he’ll have time to go through the day’s results and browse some more rugby news before tea in fifteen minutes. It’s a nice ritual, one he’s been keeping since his England U18 callup for the 2007-8 season was made official two months ago. He’s getting serious about rugby now, and extra knowledge can only help.

Once he’s finished scoffing at Salford’s demolition by Catalans – 66-6, an absolute landslide – he clicks on to one of his usual rugby news sites. The first headline makes him sit back in his chair, blink hard a few times, and read it again.

_Referee Nigel Owens comes out as gay_

He knows who the guy is, appreciates his banter, but – wow. He opens the link in an incognito window, just in case. His dad is a proper rugby lad, and he can’t risk even the association. He scans through the article.

_Attempted suicide – wanted to be chemically castrated – now an inspiration_

Owen rubs at his eyes. There’s a few quotes from other refs and some of the Welsh players, saying how it doesn’t matter to them and they would never treat him any differently.

It’s one thing to have a gay ref, he thinks, but another to have a gay player, surely? At least a referee would only be able to look, not touch. He bites his lip. These players – they all say they don’t have a problem with it, but they’re probably playing nice for the press. He knows Andy Farrell would never accept being refereed by a – well, insert slur of choice here, Owen supposes.

He’s not gay, so it’s not like it affects him in any way, but he guesses he’s happy for people who are. There was one gay guy at school, a few years above him, but he moved to another school for sixth form.

But, it’s not like gay people play rugby, so they don’t need the representation, right? Like, if he were gay, he would have been put off by all the snide comments far more than he would be encouraged by one referee coming out.

“Tea’s ready!” his mum calls up the stairs, and his sisters thunder past to wash their hands. He hurriedly closes the page and logs out. Like most things in his life, Andy would deem it a distraction, so he’s not going to mention it. He doesn’t know what he would say, anyway.

*

If Mike does text back about George, Andy doesn’t mention it. Before too long, any concerns Owen might have had about him have been pushed to one side by the announcement that the Farrells are moving to Harpenden in August.

“It makes sense, dear,” his mum says, stroking his shoulders as he sits at the bottom of the stairs, fuming. “Your dad needs to live nearer Saracens, and there won’t be a better opportunity, what with the girls going to secondary school in September.”

“I don’t want to go,” Owen says, every inch a petulant child. “I like Wigan. This is home. I don’t want to live in the _south_.”

He realises too late that his dad’s come round the corner and is standing behind his mum. “Owen,” his dad says flatly, “you don’t get a choice. We’re moving whether you like it or not.”  
“It’ll be much easier for you to be in the Sarries academy as well, living closer,” his mum says, trying to sweeten the deal.

He opens his mouth to keep complaining, for once not caring about the consequences, when his dad gets in there first. “Snap out of it,” he barks. “Look, you’re upsetting your mother. You might not want to leave now, but you’ll be grateful in the end.”

Owen deflates. That’s the final word on the matter, and they all know it. “Go upstairs and start packing,” Andy says. “I don’t want to see you for the rest of the evening.”

Eyes stinging, Owen gets up and walks up the stairs. It’s over, then. Without knowing, he’s played his last game for Wigan St Pats. Okay, he won’t play for his union or school teams again either, but Wigan’s what really hurts. Going down south means no more league, probably ever. He’ll be in the Saracens academy, fully committed to union, and that’ll be that.

It’s a great opportunity, of course, but he really loves league. And Wigan. And his friends at school. And spending his rare free evenings hanging out by the canal. And – if he keeps thinking like this, he’s going to cry, and his dad’s going to go mental.

He closes his bedroom door behind him and drags his suitcase out from under the bed. _Time to grow up, mate._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my current obsession! I have about 100k ready to post in twenty-eight chapters, although I’m not sure if I’ve hit the halfway mark in writing yet. (Yes, it’s one of those, and I have no idea where this sudden ability to write longfic came from...)
> 
> New chapters should be posted on Sundays, with a distinct possibility of some Friday updates from time to time.
> 
> I’d love to hear what you thought in the comments!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I promised Sunday updates...
> 
> I’d love to hear what you thought in the comments!

Harpenden is – it’s fine. There are a lot more golf courses around than he’s used to, and far fewer falling-down colliery buildings. He gets funny looks when he starts talking, and the number of pie shops is depressingly small. Rugby – well, rugby union – almost makes up for it, in the end.

He’s introduced to the academy lads at the start of preseason training. Most of them, his dad warns, have been playing together for years, so he needs to make an impression quickly. He recognises a few of them from U16s, when he was captain. That’s got to be a good start.

Everyone seems friendly enough, but he knows the real test will come when they get out onto the training pitch. It’s nice to have everyone just as committed as him; back in Wigan, there would always be a few newbies or jokers who would try and have a laugh, when really they were there to train and improve. At Saracens, he can already tell it’s going to be different.

They might be in the academy for the moment, but the lure of a Saracens shirt is always hanging before them, especially with what seems like half the first team loitering at the side of the pitch while they wait for their training session. Owen spots Charlie Hodgson holding court among the men, and he smiles nervously. Then he sees his dad, and he has to block everything out.

It’s his first day, and he has to impress. Three-year academy contracts mean nothing if you can’t perform.

He’d like to think that he acquits himself well; all his kicks are on target and his only issue when it comes to the game simulations is not being completely sure of everyone’s names yet. Maybe it’s a little bit of a reputational thing coming into play, he thinks. Owen could barely hear the flyhalf on the opposite team, so he knows he’s got that guy’s number. A rugby pitch is no place for hesitation.

His dad nods once at him as the academy players leave the field, leaving the pitch free for the first team. Owen makes sure to nod back, not letting it puncture his mood or knock him off balance. This is his chance, and he needs to prove himself.

During the lunch break, the other boys seem to have no such issues. “Ayup, Farrell!” Jamie George shouts as he walks into the canteen. He’s swinging on the back legs of his chair, apparently not concerned about what could happen if he fell and broke something. Owen raises a hand in greeting, scans the room. There don’t seem to be many more attractive options for him to eat lunch with, so he goes over to Jamie.

“Hello,” he says stiffly. It’s been a couple of months since they last saw each other for U16s, and Owen can recognise that this is very much Jamie’s turf.  
m

“Alright?” Jamie asks, leaning forward so all four chair legs are touching the ground.

“Uh, yeah,” Owen says. He takes a bite of his food. Other guys must be about to join them, surely.

“Ayup, Faz,” George Kruis says as he sits down beside him. “We’ve missed your northern yelling over the break.” Owen nods, shifting a bit in his seat. He doesn’t know what to say to that – and he doesn’t want to talk now either, suddenly self-conscious. _Wouldn’t have been a problem back in Wigan_ , a treacherous voice whispers in his head.

“The lads treating you alright, though?” Jamie asks, and he does genuinely sound interested. “We’ve got a few new guys this year, but you’re definitely the star of the show.”

Owen shrugs. “They’ve all been fine. Haven’t had a chance to talk much.” He can feel the lock next to him mouthing _chance_ , and he has to curl his hand up into a fist under the table to stay calm.

“Well, with all us England guys here, you should get on fine,” Jamie says. Owen feels something brush against his leg which might just have been Jamie kicking Kruiser under the table. “Speak of the devil – hi, lads.” Owen looks up from his food to see Billy and Mako Vunipola taking the last two seats at the table. They’re fine, from the brief time they’ve spent together – at least Mako won’t be teasing him about his accent, still somehow sounding like he’s Welsh born and bred.

“Hiya, Faz,” Billy smiles. “How’s it going?”

“Good, yeah,” Owen says. He’s going to have to get over this accent thing quickly – his dad won’t be impressed to hear he’s only been communicating in monosyllables off the pitch. “Nice to be back after the break.” Is that extra few words enough effort? Not really, but he’s willing to cut himself some slack for once. It’s his first day, surrounded by southerners. He can have a few hours to be pathetic.

“Have you lot heard about England yet?” Kruiser asks. “I swear Fletcher said he would be sending out the squad list about now.”

“Mate,” Jamie scoffs, “when will you learn that _John Fletcher_ is never someone to trust about timings? He’s a great coach, but terrible with organisation.” Kruiser shrugs, and Jamie keeps talking, a broad grin on his face. “Nah, Elliot told me that the Wasps coaches told them it would be in two weeks. Gives them a bit more time to assess us, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, _Elliot_ said, did he?” Billy says, raising his eyebrows. “And how do precious little Elliot and his buzzy friends get to know something we don’t?” Owen looks from Billy’s contemptuous smile to Jamie’s slight blush. Somehow, he knows that this is a fight that’s happened before. He can’t intervene, though – he doesn’t know where the battle lines are drawn. (And it’s not like the old boys are helping much either.)

“Look, it’s just what they were told, alright?” Jamie says defensively. “I’m just passing on what he told me.”

“I’m sure he did tell you, hmm?” Billy says, a sneer in his voice. “We all know there’s something a bit weird going on with you two.”

“We’re just friends, mate,” Jamie retorts. Try as he might, there’s no disguising the shaking of his hands. “No funny business.” He plasters on a horrible smile. “I reckon you’re just jealous because you don’t have any proper friends.”

“Alright, gaylord.” Billy gets to his feet. “I’ll see you lot later for the tactics session.” He stalks away, leaving a sinking silence behind him.

Owen can’t stop a similar feeling building up in his stomach. That kind of outright hostility – he’s starting to realise that the Sarries boys aren’t all singing from the same hymn sheet, that the united front they show during England camps is just that – a front.

“You know he doesn’t mean it,” Kruiser says to Jamie. The shorter boy is curled in on himself, refusing to make eye contact. “It’s just banter.”

“Doesn’t stop it hurting,” Jamie mutters.

Owen wants nothing more than to extract himself from the situation, to run away and never look back. If this were back in Wigan, he’d assert his authority over his teammates and make them have a honest conversation about it. As it is, he has no right to get involved with issues that have clearly been brewing long before he arrived. Kruiser seems to have it handled, anyway.

“You’ve got to take it on the chin,” Kruiser is saying when Owen zones back in. “Let him see that it’s affecting you, and he’ll just keep doing it.”

Jamie laughs bitterly. “I can’t, though. Elliot’s my best mate, and I’m not going to stop talking about him just because Billy’s being a dick.” He runs his hands through his hair. “I suppose you’re right,” he admits with a sigh. “The coaches won’t do anything – they’d probably just tell me to stop mentioning him, something stupid like that.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Owen says, finding his voice suddenly. “If you can keep a friendship going when you’re that far apart, that’s something to be proud of. Don’t change just because somebody’s being a prick.”

Jamie looks at him appraisingly. “Thanks, Faz. I guess there’s a lot of people up north you’re trying to keep in touch with, right? That can’t be easy.”

Well – there’s a few. Probably too few, Owen would freely admit. A couple of guys from the team, his three closest mates from school, and-

A pair of intense grey eyes come to mind all of a sudden, a firm Wigan accent, and a cocky grin. He hasn’t thought about George in months, and he doesn’t know how he’d get in contact with him again.

Logistically, he knows it would be quite easy. Mike Ford is probably less than five hundred metres away from him right now, and he’d just have to ask for his number. How he’d summon the courage to do that, he doesn’t know. He’s had plenty of transitory friendships before, and George might have to fall into that category, however much he doesn’t want that to happen.

“A few, yeah,” he gets out, when he realises Jamie is waiting for an answer. “Got to keep this accent pure somehow, y’know.” That surprises a laugh out of the other boys at the table, and he smiles. It’s one of the first lessons he learned from his dad: make jokes about yourself before they can, and then prove them wrong for laughing.

“You’re a good lad, Faz,” Jamie says, standing up and stretching his arms. “We’re happy you’re here.”

“Thanks,” he says, pleased. “I’m excited too.” They all get up, having finished lunch, and amble off to the strategy session.

So far, so good, in Owen’s mind. He’s made Jamie and Kruiser laugh, while not pissing off Billy while he could hear. The accent thing has been dealt with, at least with these guys. And if George is still hanging around in the back of his mind, he pushes it away. He has more important things to do now. He has a career to build.

*

The next five months are hectic, and Owen doesn’t even have to try to repress thoughts about a tiny flyhalf/stand-off he met a handful of times. He’s training with the academy almost every day, travelling around the country for games at the weekend. On top of all that, he’s squeezing in lessons and homework for three A-levels.

Sometimes, in the moments before he goes to sleep – the only downtime he seems to get, these days – he thinks about how his dad managed a career and school. Then, he thinks again, does some maths in his head. Okay, his dad wasn’t juggling school and rugby, he was doing something far harder, in Owen’s opinion. He’d take A-levels over a baby any day – at least his business homework doesn’t wake him up in the night by screaming.

His life is pretty charmed, all things considered, especially once he receives his England U18 callup.

The announcement is made one evening after training, the academy group chat blowing up as the flurry of congratulations and commiserations comes in. His mum is ecstatic when he tells her, hugging him tight and kissing the top of his head. His sisters roll their eyes and leave the room, typical teenagers.

Andy comes in to see what the fuss is all about. “Good job, son,” he says, once Colleen has shared the news. “Keep it up.” Owen smiles obligingly. He’s happy, of course, but there’s always the pressure to keep pushing, keep moving up the ladder.

They both know there’ve been rumours that he could be third choice flyhalf for the senior team soon, as injury cover for Charlie and his backup. Not even the second team, like Jamie’s tipped to do, but straight into the first team. He can’t stop now – in his dad’s eyes, he’s barely started.

He drags himself through the weeks, only really looking forward to the escape of the matches at the weekend. It’s nice, the liminal space of the coach, surrounded by the chatter of other teenage boys, all puling together in the same direction.

There’s always the build-up of adrenaline on the way, the absolute rush of a good match, and then the few hours of respite he’s allowed afterwards. It’s almost like the reward of an oasis after hauling himself through the mid-week desert.

The only game he doesn’t enjoy in the first half of the season is the trip up to play the Wasps academy. Everyone knows that Jamie’s excited to see Elliot again – it’s obvious in his babbling, run-on sentences, even if you hadn’t heard him going on about it for at least two weeks.

But with that, there’s an underlying thread of tension. Billy’s comments haven’t abated in the slightest; Jamie just turns the other cheek, sometimes literally. There’s an England camp coming up – surely Billy wouldn’t risk being antagonistic towards two of his teammates in front of two sets of coaches, and probably some England staff as well? Owen wants to think well of all his comrades, but sometimes they make it difficult.

He’s on edge from when they arrive at the ground, nerves peaking as they go out onto the pitch to get ready. The Wasps players are already out there, their shouts ringing around the mostly empty stands. He can see the moment Elliot, waiting for his turn to take a practice kick, sees Jamie. His face lights up, and it’s pretty cute, even Owen can admit.

They run up to each other and hug tightly, talking too quietly for anyone else to hear. Unfortunately, that means nearly everyone registers Billy’s scathing comments – not the coaches, they’re out of earshot, but all the Sarries players hear it. “Fucking hell,” he grumbles. “I hate queers. Why do they have to be so _obvious_ about it all the time?”

Owen exchanges an uncomfortable look with Kruiser, biting his lip. They should say something, stick up for their friends, but it’s also half an hour before a match. They can’t risk throwing the team off. Owen’s dad would never forgive him – in fact, he’d probably agree with Billy.

Jamie rejoins the group, beaming. “Alright, lads?” he asks, his own happiness insulating him from the awkward atmosphere among the rest of the team. Luckily, the coaches come over at that moment before anything else can be said.

The game is tight, Saracens eventually eking out the win by a few penalties in the last five minutes. Owen’s more relieved than anything to see Elliot laying a thunderous hit on Jamie a few metres away from the try line. He knows Billy, right next to him, saw it too, so he can’t complain that their friendship stops them taking rugby seriously. (Jamie’s back on his feet within seconds, which helps him to not feel too annoyed with Elliot as well.)

“Have you been back up to Wigan yet?” Jamie asks him, chirpier than ever on the bus ride home. “I don’t think you realise how much you miss people until you see them again, you know?”

Owen hums. “I think we’re going up at Christmas, to see family, like. We’re all too busy at the moment.”

Jamie smiles, approving. “That’s good. I know we’re all great, but you must miss home sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” he agrees.

As it happens, he doesn’t have to wait until the Christmas trip back to Wigan to remind him of what he’s been missing – a reminder comes to Harpenden.

More specifically, it moves into the house directly opposite.

*

“Do you know who’s just moved in over the road?” Colleen asks him one morning over breakfast. He grunts, every inch a sixteen-year-old at seven am. It’s probably one of her friends from work, or her awful running group. Nobody interesting – he’s not that lucky.

“It’s the Fords!” she says triumphantly, refilling his glass. “Your father says Mike was fed up with commuting, and so the whole family has moved down. What are the chances, eh?”

He blinks, trying to dispel any early-morning fogginess. “The Fords? Like, George?”

“Yes, dear,” she clucks. “George, and his brothers, and Mike and his wife, who seems lovely. All five of them.”

“Why – why now?” he asks. George, over the road? This must be some incredibly elaborate hallucination, he decides.

“Well, I think whichever school they were at before – Rishworth? They’d already broken up for the holidays, so they’ve moved now to get settled before next term.”

Owen gets dressed for school in a daze, having to have three attempts at putting his tie on properly. He’s only jolted out of it when he hears an unfamiliar car outside. He looks out the window to see a car pulling out of the drive opposite – Mike going to work, presumably. He has to take a moment to sit on his bed and collect himself.

It’s only been six or seven months since he last saw George, but he’s inexplicably nervous. They got on well before, but maybe that was because their interactions were limited to every month or so for about five minutes each time. Now they’re essentially neighbours, that’s a lot more time together – and a lot more time for something to go wrong.

He manages to avoid seeing any of the Ford boys for a couple of weeks, burying his head in his homework like it’s the sand for the proverbial ostrich. Coupled with an overnight trip to play the Newcastle academy, it’s relatively easy to brush off his mum’s pleas that he go and make friends with their new neighbours.

He knows more about George than the others, who – according to his mum, who’s spoken to their mum – are eighteen and eleven. They both play union and league as well, and the older one apparently is in the process of negotiating a contract with Bradford Bulls for when he finishes school. His mum tells him, in her new status as source of all knowledge on the Ford family, that Bradford are looking at George too, although he’s yet to decide if he wants to commit to league.

Armed with all this information and a rugby ball, Owen ventures across the street one Friday after the end of term and rings the doorbell. It’s just after lunchtime, so it won’t be dark for a few hours, and his plan should go well.

There’s a rustling at the other side of the door, and he makes sure to set his shoulders. _First impressions are everything, son_ , Andy echoes, even if this isn’t really the first time he’s met all of them. Then there’s a loud bark from inside, and he takes a step back, teetering on the edge of the front step.

“Sorry about the dog,” he hears as the door opens, “he’s not good with – strangers.” The boy holding onto the spaniel’s collar straightens up, and their eyes meet, for the first time in more than half a year.

George has grown since the last time they met, Owen notices immediately. He’s maybe an inch taller, and a lot more muscular. His arms in particular, straining to hold the dog back.

“Hi,” he says eventually, once they’ve finished staring at each other.

“Fancy seeing you here,” George answers, always the more daring one. “It’s been a while.”

“I asked my dad what happened to you at the end of the season,” Owen says, clutching onto the first thought that comes to mind. “He says he texted your dad, but he never told me if he got a reply.”

George scuffs at the carpet, still holding the whining dog between his legs. “I broke my ankle,” he says quietly. “Not too badly, but it wasn’t worth me coming back to finish the last few games in case it got worse. That’s all.”

“Well, I’m glad it wasn’t serious,” Owen says politely. George’s hands, where they’re spread across the dog’s chest – they’re definitely in proportion, he thinks inanely.

“Oh, this is Leo,” George says, misinterpreting his gaze. “He’s been absolutely nuts the last few weeks because everything’s new – I promise he’s not always like this.”

Owen laughs quickly. “Hey, look, I was thinking – it might be nice for you, and your brothers too, I guess, if I showed you the park round the corner. It’s got proper posts and everything, so we could do some kicking practice?”

George looks behind him into the hall. “Jacob’s grounded and I think Joe’s talking to his girlfriend, but I’ll come. Give me five minutes to grab my boots, and we can go.”

Owen hovers on the doorstep for an awkward moment before George opens the door wider. “You can wait inside – if you’re okay with Leo licking you while I run upstairs?” Owen shrugs and steps inside, letting the door fall closed behind him.

He drops to his knees as Leo starts bouncing around him, patting his head and back and rubbing at his chest. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” he coos. When George is satisfied that the dog isn’t about to bite Owen’s face off, he turns and runs up the stairs.

Owen fusses over Leo for a few more minutes, until he hears footsteps. He looks up, expecting George, not a middle-aged woman. He stands up. This must be George’s mum. “Hi,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’m Owen Farrell, from over the road.” If rugby’s given him anything, it’s the ability to sound confident when he’s absolutely shitting himself.

“Oh, Owen,” she says, shaking his hand. “George told us about you – and Mike too, of course, although he has a bit of a different perspective. I’m Sally-Anne, George’s mother.”

She doesn’t seem like she’s imminently going to kick him out from the friendly smile on her face, and he lets himself relax. “It’s lovely to meet you. Um, I was just going to go to the park at the end of the street with George, so we can do some kicking practice.”

She chuckles, rolls her eyes. “Of course you were. Rugby families, eh? That’s fine by me – just make sure he’s back by dark, please. I know what you boys can be like.” He’s about to reply when George comes thundering back down the stairs.

“We’re going to the park,” he says quickly, “is that okay?”

“Yes, love. Home before tea, remember.”

“Yes, mum,” George groans, in that way of teenage boys everywhere. “I’ll be back in a bit.” He nods at Owen to open the door, grabbing hold of Leo again.

“Bye,” Owen says awkwardly before George almost pushes him out the door.

“God, she’s such a pain,” George grumbles. “Are your parents like that? All ‘stay safe’, ‘look after yourself’, _all the time_. It’s ridiculous. I’m fourteen, not five.”

“Very mature about it too,” Owen says. He doesn’t mean for it to sound so cold, but he knows that his dad would never tell him to be careful. His mum would, he thinks, but his dad is more concerned about his performance for a few select hours a week than his safety the rest of the time.

They walk in silence to the end of the road, Owen leading George across when there’s no traffic. It’s strange, how much he feels like George is the younger brother he never had. He’s older than the twins by a few years, and he can’t imagine his parents having another kid now, almost a decade after the last ones. There’s only a year and a half between them in age, but it’s so much more. George hasn’t even done his GCSEs, for God’s sake.

He digs his kicking tee out of his shorts pocket, relieved to see George doing the same. From what he remembers dimly from their past contests, they don’t use the same style, and he doesn’t really want to share his.

George opts to go first, and Owen lets his gaze wander while he sets up his kick. This is the emptiest he’s ever seen this park, one person walking a dog on the opposite side of the pitches the only other sign of life. All the trees lining the perimeter are leafless and still, no wind to disturb their spindly branches. He jogs on the spot a few times; it’s December, and the weather shows it.

His eyes snap back to George as he starts his run, planting the left foot and following through with the right. He connects with the ball with a firm _thwack_ and it sails through the posts. Owen always liked a challenge.

They take turns for ten minutes in silence, content with the background traffic noise. “Have you decided between union and league yet?” Owen asks at last as they change over, George tossing him the ball. He’s been thinking about it, whether he wants the competition in what he’s made his own backyard, or whether he’d prefer to be friends in different codes instead of rivals in the same one.

“No,” George says, sounding sheepish. “My dad wants me to do union because it pays better, and I’ve got a good chance at England U18s next season, but I’m not sure.”

“Have you got any interested academies?” Owen asks. He’s interrupting George’s kicking routine now, but he’s too curious to care.

“Well, Bradford, because of my brother, and Leicester. It’d be easier to go to Leicester because I’ve got the international stuff going for me, but Bradford…” He scratches the back of his neck. “The age group league teams have never really been interested in me, I don’t know why. I’d have a hell of a lot more to prove if I went there.”

Owen has a sudden urge to hug him. He looks so small and uncertain, standing there in the middle of the pitch, nose red with cold. “You’re only fourteen,” he says, clearing his throat. “You’ve got time.”

George flashes him a quick smile. “Thanks, mate. I’m just – it’s a lot to think about, and Mum and Dad really want me to make the decision myself so they’re actually not being much help.”

Owen shrugs. “That can be a good thing. You don’t want to end up regretting your decision.” He feels a bit stupid, trying to give life advice at the ripe old age of sixteen, but then he does have experience in this field. He’s committed to this path now, for the next fifteen years at least. As much as it would be fun to have George following or joining him in union, he knows pressurising him is wrong.

“Shall we try some harder kicks?” George asks, picking up his tee and the ball. “Like, out to the edges more?” Owen nods, and obediently trails after him to the five-metre line. From what he’s seen today and in the past, Bradford and Leicester are right to be pursuing George. What he might lack in stature, he doesn’t lack in raw talent or bravery. He’ll do just fine.


	3. Chapter 3

They practise a lot more together once school starts again in January because the coaches decide that George is good enough to play up an age group once more. (Owen wants to shake some sense into them when he hears them debating it during a PE lesson. George has been playing with teams older than him since he was about eight; of course he’s good enough to handle it.)

For the first few weeks, George plays for the U18 B team as a way of appeasing all the parents who are suddenly concerned for his welfare. _More like their sons’ place on the team_ , Owen thinks, when George complains to him about it. After almost single-handedly thrashing every team he comes across, by all accounts, he’s moved up to the first team after the other schools in the area start complaining.

“Never thought this would happen when we were back in Wigan, eh?” Owen says, before their first match together. They’re lacing up their boots in the locker room, both wearing the red and green stripes of their school kit.

“No, I always imagined I’d be starting,” George jokes, the humour not covering the tremor of nerves in his voice.

“You’ll be alright.” Owen knocks their shoulders together. “I’ll stick the knife in, and then you come on and twist it. Deal?”

The laugh seems startled out of George, and Owen can’t help joining in. The rest of the team, pretty much all Year 13 southerners, are giving them funny looks, but Owen doesn’t care. He knows he’s better than them, and George will be too, soon enough. That alone gives him the right to be a bit weird in the changing room.

The match is fairly standard. Owen, as promised, sticks the knife in with a 100% record off the tee and a drop goal for good measure before he’s subbed off with fifteen minutes to go. “Fuck them up for me,” he whispers to George as they run past each other. He clasps George’s hand hard for a second, and then he’s back on the bench, wrapped in a long coat and trying not to shiver as the adrenaline wears off.

It’s the tensest he’s been watching a match in ages – even more so than when Wigan are clinching a playoff spot. The opposition clearly spot George’s size (or lack thereof) as he runs onto the field to take the kick-off, and they’re eyeing him like lions to a baby antelope. Owen chews at his fingernails. George has always been fine in training and in his B team matches, so this should be no different.

To the surprise of absolutely nobody, the opposition number eight takes the ball from the restart and runs straight up George’s channel. Thankfully, because it’s the most telegraphed move they’ve run all day, George knows what’s coming and makes a textbook passive tackle, letting the bigger player essentially run past him and trip himself up as George’s arms slide down around his ankles.

Owen holds his breath until George bounces back to his feet, and then lets it out in a sigh of relief. Maybe this match will be okay after all.

He doesn’t know what else to do but laugh when George scores in the final play of the game, weaving in and out of defenders twice his size and dotting the ball down right under the posts. The opposition look bewildered for a second before they all start shouting at each other, gesturing wildly. “He’s alright, your boy, isn’t he?” one of his teammates says on the bench, nudging him.

“Just a bit,” Owen says. His heart’s still pounding from the last tackle George dodged.

George kicks the conversion successfully and the final whistle blows. Owen runs after him straight away, ignoring his usual self-imposed rules about team spirit. His friend is part of his team, he figures, so it’s fine.

“Holy shit!” he yells, jumping on George from behind. “Mate, that was bloody brilliant!”

George twists round and shoves him off, a huge smile on his face. “Did you like it?”

“They definitely didn’t,” Owen says, pointing towards the other team’s huddle. Their coach is bright red from screaming at them already.

George laughs, slinging his arm around Owen’s waist. Owen reciprocates with his arm around the younger boy’s shoulders. “You do that in your league games too?” he asks, fiddling with George’s collar as they walk back to the main cluster of St George’s players.

“Not _every_ time,” George says, still beaming. He has a feeling that it’s not going to wear off any time soon.

The boys all cheer as they join the circle. Owen pulls George in a little tighter to his side, grinning proudly. Then their coach steps forward, and they fall silent. “Does anyone know any other league players from the north?” he asks, a twinkle in his eye. “We could stack the whole team with ‘em and we’d win everything!” The team laugh, and Owen scrubs at the top of George’s head. Up the north, and fuck the rest of them, honestly.

Their school team goes from strength to strength, going all the way to the national finals at the end of May. It’s a good day, even though they don’t win, and Owen is proud to have established himself at the core of it all with George.

It’s good to have success in one area of his life, anyway. The atmosphere at Saracens grows frosty as the season wears on, the first team not doing as well as anyone – the players, the fans, the investors – would hope. It trickles down to the academy, leaving them all twitching at the slightest perceived insult, and into the Farrell household.

By some miracle, it doesn’t seem to be affecting the Fords, so Owen escapes across the road as often as he can. His mum corners him after a few weeks of him running out of the house every evening for hours, wanting to know where he’s been. Embarrassed, he explains in a quiet voice that he’s going to George’s house to revise.

His AS exams are in a month’s time, and he can’t work when his dad’s in the house. He’s too on edge, ears pricked for any sound of movement, to take in any knowledge. His mum sighs and kisses him on the cheek, sending him on his way with a rucksack full of revision. They both know avoidance is better than confrontation at this point, for all of them.

Once his exams are out of the way, the revision excuse is useless and he has to turn to something else to justify being out of the house so often. It’s George who suggests it one morning as they walk to school together.

“Can’t you just say we’re doing fitness stuff together, like, at the park? They’d never bother to come and check, and we could hang out for a bit.” He looks hopeful, offering Owen a wine gum from the packet he’s snacking on.

“Maybe,” he says, dragging the word out. “I mean, we could always do some training as well. Sprint intervals, that kind of thing.”

George cheers sarcastically. “Oh yes, I love nothing more than running with someone five inches taller than me. Really makes me feel good about myself.”

Owen scoffs. “I think it’d be good for you. If you’re playing with the big boys, you’ve got to be able to keep up with us.”

George pretends to huff. “No more wine gums for you in the morning then, dick. Clearly I need them for my growth spurt.”

“Keep dreaming, shorty,” he says, grabbing the sweet packet from George’s unsuspecting hands and sprinting off with them. George gives chase, whining even when he’s managed to wrestle the sweets back in front of the school gates.

“Have a good day, munchkin,” Owen says, blowing him a kiss as they walk towards their separate buildings.

“Piss off,” George says, humour still running through his voice. “I’ll see you later.”

*

Somehow, his parents – or more critically, his dad – are all for his suggestion of training at the park with George. He can slope out of the house in the morning with a packed lunch and come back before tea, with just enough time for a shower before sitting down to eat. It’s a perfect plan, and he can’t believe it works.

The first day, they rigorously work through some fitness drills before lunch, then kick for the rest of the afternoon. Before a week is out, though, they’ve slacked off. George has taken to sitting under one of the spreading oak trees in the shade, yelling encouragement to Owen as he runs between two cones. “Come on,” he shouts, with far too much volume for a literal child, “would Saracens be impressed with that? Get a move on!”

Owen sometimes wants to mention that George himself is hoping for an England U18 place and should really be training too, but he lets it slide. He’s usually too sweaty and out of breath for snarky comments, anyway.

About three weeks into their supposed exercise routine, George comes to the park looking more than subdued. “What’s up?” Owen asks, pulling him to the ground to sit beside him. He’s got a particularly nice spot saved for them today, furthest from the road and all the car fumes.

“My brother signed his Bradford contract today,” he murmurs to the floor.

“Oh, wow,” Owen says. He’s only met Joe a few times, but he seems nice enough. Northern, too, which helps. “That’s great.” George nods. Owen shifts closer. Clearly this conversation is going to stretch his emotional intelligence. “What’s the matter, then? Did he say something about what you’re going to do?”

George shrugs. “Not exactly. It’s just… It’s kind of made me want to do league a bit more, and I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing.”

“What do you mean?” Owen asks. It was an easier decision for him, with only Saracens offering him an academy contract, but he can still empathise to an extent.

“Well, I think I want to play league. But here I am, trying to get into the national U18 team for union. Like, if I want a career in league, why am I bothering with union anymore?” George rips up a few pieces of grass and shreds them. “I love them both, and there are transferable skills, obviously, but I don’t think Bradford will be impressed if I’m spending all my time practising the other type of rugby.” He sighs, rubbing at his eyes.

“I think we’ve had this conversation before,” Owen says, smiling slightly. “Like I said the first time – you have a while yet before you have to decide, yeah? And any team would be happy to see you playing international rugby, just to prove your dedication, that kind of thing.”

His smile fades. “This might sound a bit hypocritical, coming from me and my family, but it could be worth talking to your parents about it. They know more than we do, for sure, and they could contact Bradford and explain, see if the offer would still be there even if you did do England U18s for union.”

George leans his head on Owen’s shoulder for a split second. “Thanks, mate. I think I just needed someone to tell me it’s okay. I know I can’t keep doing both forever, but I want to try, for as long as possible.”

Owen ruffles his hair before standing up and brushing the grass off his legs. “That sounds like a good idea to me. Now, we need to make sure you’re fit for Bradford, alright? Do twenty press-ups.”

George looks at him balefully, then stretches himself into the press-up position. “Who’s the one with an academy contract who knows what they’re talking about here?” Owen chirps, clapping his hands together as George lowers himself to the floor. “Oh look, it’s me. Now, hurry up, mate. It’s almost time for some sprints!”

*

The rest of the off-season passes by in a blur of picnics and drills and kicking practice, and then Owen’s back into the daily routine of uncomfortable drives to the Saracens training ground with his dad, longing to be back at the park with George. It doesn’t take long, though, before he realises that he’s going to be spending a lot more time with him this year than he’d bargained for.

He’s just changing into some clean clothes after a post-training shower in his room when there’s a frantic knocking on the door. He lets one of his sisters deal with it; he knows they’re downstairs, and he hasn’t got a shirt on. “Owen, it’s for you!” one of them shouts. Cursing, he pulls on a random top, swipes his hair into place, and hustles down the stairs.

“George?” he asks, confused. His friend is grinning ear to ear, looks like he’s vibrating so hard he could just about take off.

“Have you see the England email?” George says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Whichever sister had opened the door has retreated to the safety of the living room, so they’re the only ones in the hall.

“You’re serious?” Owen asks, knowing that there’s only one thing this could mean. “You got it?”

“Yep!” George says. “Shit, can I have a hug? Nobody’s home at the moment – you’re the first person I’ve told.”

“Of course,” Owen says, grinning now too. His friend’s happiness is infectious. He moves forward and raises his arms, letting George tuck himself under them and wrap his arms around his waist. “Well done, mate. I’m so happy for you.” He rests his chin on top of George’s head. “Seriously, though – it’s nuts. You’re fifteen, and you’re going to be playing U18 internationals.”

“It was all your training that did it,” George murmurs into his chest.

“Oh yeah, I’m sure that was the thing that tipped it in your favour,” he laughs. “Forget everything else you’ve done, it was the three minutes of running and four hours of lazing around in the park every day for a month that made them want you.”

“You can’t say I’m not dedicated,” George sniffs, and Owen just knows that he’s still grinning. It’s hard not to. It feels like there are bubbles in his chest, constantly rising and popping and releasing more serotonin into his veins. He assumes he’s made the squad as well – not to be arrogant, but if George can do it, he definitely can. George probably wouldn’t have come round so fast if he hadn’t, either.

“Did Fletch say when the first camp is?” he asks. It’s going to be the October half term, he knows, but George is still on the high of being involved for the first time in this age group and he wants to prolong the feeling for him.

“October half term, I think. Four days,” George says beatifically. “Oh, mate, I’m shitting myself but I’m so happy. God, I’m going to have so many bruises.”

Owen hums. “Speaking of which, I need to go and do my stretches. It was the first contact session back today – I think my shoulders are going to fall off.”

George pulls back and pokes at said shoulders. “Nah, they look fairly fixed on to me,” he decides. “But, really, thank you for this. I think I would have exploded if I couldn’t tell anyone until they got home.”

“Where are they?” Owen asks, intrigued.

“Helping Joe move all his stuff back up north,” George says, looking slightly less cheerful. “It’s the middle of the league season, but my mum wouldn’t let him go before he’d finished his A-levels. They knew Bradford and all that stuff was making me stressed, so Joe said it was fine for me to stay here.”

Owen winces. As much as he loves it, the very thought of league only seems to be making George anxious at the moment, so having to cope with his brother moving out to join a professional rugby league team on the same day as his first U18 England union callup can’t have been easy.

“When are they getting back?” He knows Bradford’s all the way up in Yorkshire, in the heart of league country, but he’s never been much good with geography.

“About nine tonight, my mum thinks. They want to make sure he’s all settled in properly,” George answers, looking more hangdog by the minute.

“Do you want to go to the park after tea – say, at seven? You shouldn’t be by yourself, not today,” he says, surprising himself.

“Okay,” George says. The offer seems to have perked him up. “I guess you won’t be up to much, but I’ll bring my stuff and you can give me tips.”

“Alright, mate,” Owen says, excited already. “I’ll see you then. Try not to blow up your house or anything before then!”

“Fuck you,” George snarks, opening the door to leave. “Mum left me some pasta salad, so there’s no way I can do that.”

“Wouldn’t put it past you!” Owen trills, and closes the door before his parents see the decidedly non-PG gesture George makes towards him.

Even his dad is happy for George when he shares the news, telling him to pass on his congratulations at the park later. The girls are unbothered as ever, and Colleen looks positively misty. If he wasn’t just as proud of George, he might be feeling a little put out at this unexpected groundswell of support for his friend.

His mum sends him off to the park with some cake and two forks in a little box. “It’s a special day,” she tells him when he protests. “He deserves to celebrate.” He still feels like a bit of a twerp going to meet George with dessert instead of a rugby ball and training equipment, but he knows his mum means well.

She clearly has a good instinct too, because George lights up when Owen stutters through the explanation for it. “That’s so kind,” he says, brutally honest. “I called my parents earlier, but this is way better.”

Owen holds out a fork. “Well, eat up. You still need to bulk up, even if the growth spurt’s a lost cause.”

George scowls, although he digs in anyway. His growth spurt, a joke between them for as long as they’ve known each other, has become a more sensitive topic as the likelihood of it happening slips away. Owen could’ve told him that it wasn’t going to happen the first time he saw George with his parents – taller than both of them at thirteen, and that wasn’t saying much. Nevertheless, he knows himself the value of dreams of helping you achieve your goals. He’s not going to spoil the hope for his friend.

It’s a nice evening, all things considered. George gets a text after a few hours that his parents and Jacob are home, so they pick up their stuff and walk back to their houses. “Usual time tomorrow?” Owen asks, balancing on the edge of the pavement before he needs to cross. George nods, looking towards his house with nervous anticipation. “Okay. Really well done, though, mate – good luck with that lot!”

George huffs, but Owen hears the shouts as the door opens and he’s presumably swept into a hug by Mike and Sally-Anne. He doesn’t look back; doesn’t want to intrude on their moment, doesn’t want to think about how it compares with his own family’s reaction to his first U18 callup. It was more expected for him, especially because he was a bit older at the time and he’d been working for it instead of league for years.

His mum hugged him, his sisters grudgingly baked a cake, and his dad gave him a clap on the shoulder and a gruff, “Well done.” It was underwhelming, as most of his dad’s reactions to his achievements have tended to be.

He lets his mum know he’s home, then goes up to his room and closes the door. He stares at the Jonny Wilkinson poster opposite his bed. Jonny would never have been ungrateful like he is. Jonny would have worked harder.

With that thought in mind, he gets to the floor and starts a set of press-ups. _You can always do more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three - things are getting serious...
> 
> I'd love to hear what you thought in the comments!


	4. Chapter 4

They still walk to school together most days, parting at the school gate and joining back up again for training in the evenings. It’s not like they ignore each other, but they’re in different year groups, both with exams in May. It’s difficult to spend as much time with George after the summer, Owen finds, because he has school and rugby and extra training to balance, not just rugby and more rugby for fun.

The October training camp solves that problem. It’s being held in Brighton, and they’re using the same facilities the senior men did only a week before. Jamie, as the only one with a licence and parents willing to let him drive a hundred miles with a carful of teenagers, takes some of the Saracens boys down.

Kruiser bags the front seat by virtue of being the tallest, while Owen is squished in the back between Billy and Mako. Their kit bags are stuffed in the boot, and Owen can’t be the only one worried about how all their extra England kit is going to fit on the way back.

“You drive like my grandmother,” Billy complains from behind Jamie. “Can’t you put your foot down a bit more? I need to piss, and I’m not going in a bush.”

“You might have to go in a bottle, then,” Jamie answers tightly. “Anyway, I can’t go any faster. You fat lumps are weighing the car down.”

Owen can see how white Jamie’s knuckles are on the steering wheel, and he prays that Billy isn’t going to keep needling him. They need to get to Brighton in one piece, not end up in hospital because Jamie decides to punch Billy while driving. Kruiser and Mako on the other side of him are just as tense, jaws and fists clenched out of sight of the two arguing.

“Fat lumps? I think you’re talking about yourself, mate,” Billy shoots back. “Thought you might have gone on a diet to look good for Elliot, but it can’t have had much of an effect.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jamie says. His cheeks are glowing red, and Owen can’t tell if it’s from anger or embarrassment. “You’re not funny, and I will kick you out of my car.”

“Woah, chill,” Billy says, holding his hands up. “It’s just a bit of banter. You’re meant to be fat because you’re a hooker; it’s not a criticism.”

Kruiser jumps in before Jamie has a chance to retort. “Both of you, shut it. We’ve got plenty of time, as long as you two stay off each other. Alright?” They both mumble their apologies, although the tension doesn’t leave Jamie’s shoulders.

At long last, Jamie pulls into the training centre and parks the car. Mako’s out like a shot, clearly uncomfortable with the tension, and Owen follows him. They busy themselves hauling the bags out of the boot, and Owen fervently avoids eye contact with either Jamie or Billy. He can’t take sides, not if he’s a good team player, but he does feel a bit sorry for Jamie. He’s almost always Billy’s target, for whatever reason, and it must be awful.

They go inside and get their passes and room keys. Jamie makes himself scarce after that – maybe Elliot’s arrived already? – and Owen’s happy to hang around the lobby with Kruiser and the Vunipolas, greeting the new arrivals. Kruiser’s busy chatting to Charlie Matthews and a few of the other Harlequins guys, when the double doors slide open again to reveal George.

He looks nervous, standing in the doorway for a second before coming in, and even smaller than usual next to all the forwards. Owen pushes himself out of his chair and goes over to him, slinging an arm around his shoulder. “Morning, kid,” he says, messing with his hair. “How’re you?”

“Alright,” George says, picking up his pass and key. “Bit nervous, but – yeah.”

“What room’re you in?” he asks, interested. George shows him the number on the key. “102? Hey, that’s me as well!”

“Don’t let anyone else hear this, but thank _fuck_ ,” George says with feeling. “I was scared they were going to stick me with some massive guy and I wouldn’t be able to sleep.”

“Who d’you think’s scary?” Owen asks, guiding him out of the lobby and up the stairs to their room. Maybe he should be letting George meet the others, but he can be a little selfish for once. They have meetings and stuff for that, anyway.

“Nobody specific,” George says as he unlocks the door. “Just some generic twenty-five-stone guy who would draw on my face while I was asleep, that kind of thing.”

“I don’t think anyone here weighs twenty-five stone,” Owen says. One or two of the props might be close to it, but they’re not French.

“That’s not the point!” George says, tucking his bags under the foot of the bed. “I’m thirteen stone on a good day – they’d eat me for breakfast.”

“Nah, it’s only lunch and tea today,” Owen snickers, lying down on his bed and stretching his hands above his head. “Did your parents drop you off?”

“Yeah. Mum wanted to come in and say bye, but I don’t need to give anyone more ammunition.”

Owen grins. “Sounds better than our trip down. Billy wouldn’t stop being an arse to Jamie the whole time.” He looks across at George, who’s lining his boots and trainers up neatly along the wall. “If there’s anyone to steer clear of, it would be Billy, just so you know. Once he’s got it in his head that he doesn’t like you, you’re screwed.”

“Really?” George says, looking properly nervous for the first time.

“Yeah,” Owen replies. He yawns and scrubs at his eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll point him out to you when we go down for the welcome and kit collection. You can’t miss him.”

“Thanks.” George flashes him a grateful smile. “I’m glad you’re here to show me the ropes.”

The initial meeting goes as expected, the new guys having to stand up and introduce themselves. There isn’t a particularly big crop of newbies this season, for whatever reason, and Owen grins as George goes last. “I’m George Ford, from Harpenden, but Oldham really, and I’m fifteen.”

It takes half a second for everyone to register the last word. “You’re _what_?” one of the guys shouts out, and laughter ripples round the room.

“Uh, yeah,” George says, gesturing at himself. “Couldn’t you tell?” The guys all laugh at that, and Owen feels inordinately proud of his friend. He’s passed the first test, and Owen doubts anyone’s going to go in for him on that front now.

The coaches run through the plan for the next four days, mainly focusing on team cohesion and developing their tactics for the Six Nations. They don’t have many camps as U18s, so each one has to count. He thinks they’re done and about to be dismissed when John turns back to address the room.

“Last thing – go easy on Fordy. The kid’s still got his GCSEs to do, and his mum wants all his brain cells left intact when we give him back at the end of the week.” Most people laugh, a few rolling their eyes. Owen’s pleased to see George taking it on the chin. It won’t be the first teasing comment he’ll get about his age, that’s for sure.

They’re split up into groups for some stupid icebreaker exercises. It’s not really necessary, with only four or five of the lads new into the squad this year. Owen’s played with nearly everyone in the room at U16s or with Saracens, but he makes sure to get into a group with George just in case. The Fords hadn’t said anything explicitly to him about keeping an eye on him, but he wants to.

“Hey, Shaggy,” he says when he sees who’s in their little team. “Shaggy, meet Fordy. Fordy, this is Alex, our captain and the only other proper northerner here.”

“Nice to meet you,” George says politely. He does seem a little confused by just how much hair Alex has on his head, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I’m from Barnard Castle, with the Falcons,” Alex says cheerily. “Hey, JJ, say Barnard Castle for me?”

Jonathan Joseph, who’s just joined their cluster, waves at George before saying, in a tired way that suggests it’s a frequent request. “Barnard Castle.”

Owen and Alex crack up, George keeping his polite smile firmly in place. “ _Bar_ - _nard Carstle_ ,” they parrot, sniggering.

“Yes, alright, lads,” JJ says, sighing. “It was funny the first twenty times. Now, what are we actually meant to be doing?”

The hour goes by surprisingly quickly, and then they’re sent off to their rooms with armfuls of new kit and told to be ready in the locker room in ten minutes. “Come on, mate,” Owen says to George, “let’s shift.” They go up to their room, both changing quickly. Owen nips to the toilet and when he comes out, he sees George adding the new training gear to his neat stacks of clothes. “We need to go,” Owen says, glancing at the clock. “We’ve got two minutes – we need to run.”

They hurtle back along the corridor and down two flights of stairs, boots and mouthguards in their hands. Owen allows himself a second to catch his breath before pushing the door open and going inside. “Ah, Faz, Fordy,” John Fletcher says, smiling at them with only a hint of a warning in his eyes. “Nice of you to join us. Take a seat wherever; positions aren’t fixed yet.” They slide onto the end of the closest bench, Owen nodding a greeting to Elliot next to him and making room for George on his other side.

They have some fitness tests to work through first, to see how their preseason training and the first few weeks of the season have affected them since the last camp. Owen usually detests the sprints, but somehow having George watching on spurs him to dig deep and push harder. It’s like being back in the park at home again, letting him settle into a rhythm, a steady flow state.

After twenty minutes of what can only be described as unpleasant exercise, the coaches announce that it’s time for some actual rugby. A ragged cheer goes up, punctuated by heavy breathing. They’re split pretty evenly for the first touch game, with Owen on one team and Chris, the other established flyhalf in the squad, on the other. George is taken off to one side with the attack coach, and Owen has to put it out of his mind. He has to be constantly improving, after all.

His team are ahead after ten minutes, when John calls them to a halt with his whistle. “We’re going to try something new now, boys. JJ, swap out with Fordy. Fordy, you’re at ten, with Faz at twelve.” Owen looks over at George, whose face shows no sign of emotion. That must have been what the other coach was telling him before, he realises. JJ hands his red bib over to George, and then they’re underway again.

Owen hasn’t played centre for a while, and it takes him a minute to get his head back into it. It’s not totally different from playing at flyhalf, but the lines and plays don’t come as naturally to him at twelve – at least, not at first.

George is loud from the word go, shouting and pointing and demanding more from the team. Owen’s seen him play before but only as a spectator or an opponent: playing with him is a whole other experience. He lets himself be marshalled around by this tiny kid, slots into the flyhalf position when George is trapped at the bottom of a simulated ruck, and then moves back out wide when he’s back on his feet.

It’s a rush, how well they work together, and it’s completely unexpected.

“Bloody hell, mate,” he pants into George’s shoulder when they crash together, celebrating a try. “I did not know you were this good.”

“I’m fifteen, Owen,” George answers, breath hot on his ear. He’s full of a cocky swagger, any earlier nerves forgotten. “Of course I’m good. I’m here, aren’t I?”

The rest of the lads seem to agree, accepting him with open arms. George fits in particularly well with Elliot and Jamie, sitting with them at mealtimes and seeking out their company in the evenings. Owen’s not annoyed about it or anything; he doesn’t want George to be reliant on him, or hanging around him like his younger, lamer brother.

But something feels off to him, when he sees George spending time with his other friends. He really likes George, and their friendship, for him, is different than the rest of his relationship with rugby guys. He thought what they had was special, deeper because of all the time they spent together over the summer and how long they’ve known each other. Apparently, George doesn’t think the same.

(He’s fine with it. Honestly.)

He doesn’t distance himself from George after that, exactly. It would be hard to, what with them sharing a room and on the same team in training most of the time. instead, he just – focuses more on the friends he had already, the ones he’s grown up with over the last few years. It does mean he has to avoid Jamie a bit, with how he, Elliot, and George have become an inseparable unit, attached at the hip, but he’s hurting and he can’t control his actions. Not yet, anyway.

The camp ends, and Owen breathes a sigh of relief when he’s dropped outside his front door by Jamie. Normally he’s glad for the time away from home and the chance to hang out with his rugby mates all day. This time, though, he’s happy to extract himself from an awkward situation of his own making. He could see Jamie giving him weird looks in the rear-view mirror, but he doesn’t want to explain his actions.

He doesn’t think he could. He’s jealous of Jamie and Elliot and the others that George latched on to so quickly, and he’s upset that George doesn’t seem to like him enough to bring him into a new friendship group. Beyond that, there’s a swirling cloud of nebulous emotions he can’t put a name to. Dissecting that mess would take a long time; time he doesn’t have.

So instead, he opts to act like nothing’s happened – and maybe, for the others, it hasn’t. They might not have noticed his gradual retreat, not have noticed his absence in the evenings or at lunch. He walks to school with George and Jacob and his sisters every day, but increasingly he fobs George off extra kicking practice after school or at the weekend.

He can complain about the A-level workload with no guilt – it is hard, and he is struggling a bit, but certainly not to the extent that he’s telling George. He doesn’t know what it’s like, anyway, so he can’t argue with him about it.

The league World Cup is keeping them both inside in the evenings anyway, the same games shown in two different households. On the days when that’s not enough to keep him busy, he watches from his bedroom window, surrounded by homework and essays due in three days ago, as George drags a clearly reluctant Jacob down to the park, rugby ball and tee in hand.

He wants to apologise, to make things right, but he can’t help feeling he’s created a rift between them. It is undoubtedly all his fault, which makes it worse. He spends a month and a half racking his brain for ways to say sorry, but it’s too late by then. They’re back in England camp preparing for the Six Nations, and he still hasn’t said anything. Jamie doesn’t offer him a lift this time; he has to drive himself, stewing the whole time about missed opportunities and his own idiocy.

They aren’t rooming together this time, which is a small mercy on the part of the coaches. Owen’s been put with JJ for some centre bonding, so he can absorb JJ’s knowledge and experience by osmosis, or something like that.

It’s a short-lived blessing, because JJ corners him about his whole George complex on the second evening. “What’s going on with you and Fordy, mate?” JJ asks, folding his arms and staring hard at Owen. “You two came into last camp the best of friends, and now you can barely look at him.”

Owen rolls onto his stomach, looks up at JJ from where he’s sprawled on the bed. “I…” He sighs. It doesn’t make sense, even in his head. JJ’s going to think he’s an absolute twat for this, he just knows. “He started hanging out with Jamie and Elliot more than me,” he says lamely.

“They’re your friends too, though,” JJ says, sitting cross-legged on his own bed. “Mate, I don’t understand. You’re jealous because you’re not his special friend anymore?”

Owen groans and buries his head in the duvet. “Yeah, but…” he says, muffled by the sheets. “I thought it was different, with us. Like Jinx and Elliot, you know?”

JJ laughs. “Mate, if what you had with George was like those two, I’d hope you actually talk more than this. Seriously – you’ve been ignoring him for months because he made friends?”

He huffs. It’s a ridiculous situation, and he’s fully aware of that. “What am I meant to do?” he asks pathetically. “It’s even more awkward now I’ve waited this long to mention it.”

“Look, Faz,” JJ says, “he might understand, if you talk to him about it. Just – go and apologise. He’s a decent enough kid; he’ll probably be fine, if a bit confused.” He leans over and pokes Owen in the side. “Anyway, you two are meant to be the key to the team’s success. You can’t fuck this up for us by being too much of a wuss to talk to your partner in crime for ten weeks.”

Owen pushes himself upright with a grunt. “What, so I have to – go and say I’m sorry for being a moron?”

“That’d be a start,” JJ grins. “Then say you want to be friends with him again, and Jinx and Elliot as well. Pretend you’re asking a girl out in primary school – it can’t be that hard!”

He rolls his eyes and stands up, cracking his neck. “Do you know where he is?”

JJ rolls his eyes. “You really haven’t been talking, have you? Try room 76 – that’s where Jamie and Elliot are, anyway.”

Owen gives him a shaky salute and leaves the room. It’s only when he’s in the right corridor that his bravado deserts him. He’s really been a prize prick to George, and he doesn’t know if he has the words to say how sorry he is. That was the problem in the first place, his lack of emotional literacy, and it’s the barrier in his way to resolving the issue as well.

Gritting his teeth, he knocks on the door of room 76. He can hear voices inside abruptly cutting off, which suggests he might be in the right place.

The door swings open, revealing a suspicious-looking Elliot Daly. “What is it, Faz?” he asks, frowning and blocking the space between the door and the wall with his body.

“I want to apologise to Fordy, and I thought he might be here?” he says, hating the way his voice gets higher at the end of the sentence.

Elliot looks behind him. “Yeah, he’s here. Why should he have to listen to you, though?”

“Because I’ve been an absolute twat to him, and I want to make it right,” Owen says. Self-flagellation, he can do.

Elliot hums, but he’s interrupted by a voice from inside. “Let him in, mate,” George calls. “Give him a chance.”

Eternally grateful for George’s generosity, Owen steps inside. As JJ had predicted, Jamie – joined on one bed by Eliot – and George (on the other) are sat in front of the TV, playing FIFA. He hovers awkwardly, not sure where to go. Elliot and Jamie stare at him, not doing anything to help, and it’s George once more that takes pity on him and pats the bed next to him.

“Go on then,” Jamie says gruffly as Owen perches on the end of the bed. He coughs nervously. Saying this stuff to George is bad enough, without bringing the two other boys into it. Although – he screwed them over too, so they’re probably just as deserving of an apology as George.

“I just wanted to say,” Owen starts, pausing to clear his throat, “that I’m really sorry for how I’ve behaved, the last couple of months. I really fucked up, and fucked myself up, and you as well, I imagine. I was-” he forces himself to breathe and look George in the eye- “scared that you were forgetting about me, I guess.” George’s face doesn’t change, so he ploughs on. “I was scared you were moving on and our friendship would be spoilt, and then by being scared and avoiding you, I spoilt it myself.” His hands are shaking, and he shoves them into his pockets, out of sight. “I’m really sorry. Can we go back to the way we were?”

George still doesn’t say anything, but jerks his head towards Elliot and Jamie on the other bed. “You guys too,” Owen says, twisting to look at them. “I was jealous you were hanging out with George more than me, and – I don’t know. I started to get stressed and tangled myself in knots for ages trying to get out of them. I’m sorry.”

He stops, feeling oddly like his insides have been scraped clean. There’s nothing left in him to give. If this isn’t enough – one of the most sincere apologies he’s ever managed to muster up – then it’s game over.

_If George goes to league,_ the dark voice in his head whispers, _then it won’t matter. You’ll have your friends back for good, whatever happens now._

“Come here, mate,” George says softly, holding out his arms. “I don’t blame you for it – any of it.” Owen crashes into the hug, holding the smaller boy close for the first time in too many weeks. “I could tell something was up with you, and maybe I should be more pissed, but I can’t hold it against you. You’re stressed, things are changing – I don’t want to add to that. Friends?”

“Yeah, friends,” Owen echoes, too choked up for anything more. “Guys?” he asks, looking over at Jamie and Elliot. They’re having some kind of non-verbal conversation, mainly using their eyebrows.

“We forgive you,” Elliot says finally. “Well – Jamie’s a bit more annoyed-” Owen could tell that from the glower on his face- “but it’s okay. George can have more than one friend, you know?”

Jamie arranges his face into a more neutral expression before speaking. “We – well, me, mostly – were worried you were staying away because of me and El. You’ve never said anything when Billy starts going off on one, and I thought it might be because you agreed with him.”

Owen’s head is in a spin. He’d always aimed for a policy of tactful neutrality, trying not to rock the boat too far in one direction or another for the sake of overall team unity. But if Jamie, someone he’d consider as one of his closest friends, thinks he _agrees_ with the shit Billy’s been spewing at him for ages – he must have gone wrong somewhere.

“It’s not that, I promise,” he says earnestly. “He’s such a dick to you, and maybe I should have got involved before. I will now, though – I won’t let him say that stuff anymore.”

“Thanks, mate,” Elliot says, and shifts closer to Jamie on the bed. Their little fingers are just touching on the duvet. “We can’t really say anything because he’d just double down on us, but having someone like you stand up to him could actually make a difference.”

“No problem,” Owen says, still slightly off-balance. It feels like there’s something more to this conversation, something he’s not quite getting, but he decides to leave it for the moment. Emotions are hard, especially for teenagers.

“FIFA?” George asks, waving a controller at him, clearly on the same wavelength. “We could use another player – those two are awful and it’s getting kind of boring.”

“Sure.” He looks over to the other bed. “That is, if you two are okay with it?”

“Go ahead,” Jamie says, waving imperiously. “We’ll watch; that’s more than enough entertainment for us.”

George fiddles with his controller, moving through the screens with a dexterity Owen’s never managed. Real-life games are more his forte, but anything for George.

They play for a couple of hours, George trouncing Owen nearly every time. If he’s equal with his friend at half time, Owen counts that as a win. He makes a mental note to practise a bit more. Even with A-levels and playoffs coming up, his competitive nature won’t let him undergo a thrashing like this again.

Eventually, Jamie decides it’s time for them to leave. “Northerners out, please,” he announces. “Only people from the Midlands and below allowed in this room after curfew.” He’s grinning, though, snuggled into Elliot’s side as usual, so Owen doesn’t take it too hard.

“That’s bloody convenient, isn’t it?” George complains, turning off the TV. “You two get the games, and we have to go to bed.”

“Shut it, Wigan,” Elliot says with a matching grin. “Maybe when you’re older, your parents might let you stay up late. For now – bedtime for ickle flyhalves.”

“I’m from Oldham!” George protests as Owen manhandles him out the door.

“Night night, little one!” Jamie calls, closing the door behind them.

George pretends to huff, but his eyes are sparkling when he looks up at Owen. “It’s good to have you back,” he says honestly. “Next time you’re getting your knickers in a twist, talk to me, okay?”

Owen hugs him again because he can, and because he can’t take the easy forgiveness on George’s face. They’ve missed out on so much because he was being stupid- He stops himself. If he follows that train of thought, he’ll be miserable for days. “I will, mate. See you at breakfast?”

“You bet,” George says, pulling away to walk back to his own room. “Sweet dreams.”

“Good night,” Owen says, letting a broad grin spread across his face. He’s so lucky, and he doesn’t deserve George. He’s more mature than the rest of them put together, and that can only be a good thing.

They only have a week and a half to prepare before the opening game of the tournament against Scotland in mid-March. Before that, though, there’s the small matter of the cap ceremony. Owen goes to find George that morning in the room he’s sharing with Joel Hodgson. “You alright?” he asks, poking his head into the bathroom where George is patting down his fluffy brown hair.

“Yeah,” George says distractedly. “Just – can you grab my tie off my bed? I spent too long trying to sort my hair and there’s only three minutes before we need to go.”

“Sure,” Owen says, going through to the main room. “Morning, Joel,” he says. The fullback looks unsurprised at his presence; testament to how well he’s repaired his friendship with George, Owen thinks smugly. He snatches up the deep red tie from the bed and loops it round his own neck, tying it quickly then sliding it off again. Might as well be useful, since he’s here.

“There you go.” He hands the tie to George, knot loosened so he can put it on easily.

“Oh – thanks,” George says, a strange note in his voice. He puts on the tie, tightens it to fit his neck, and shrugs on his blazer where it’s hanging on the back of the door.

“You ready, mate?” Owen asks Joel, quickly checking his own hair in the mirror. It’s swept tidily over his forehead – he’s presentable enough.

“Yep,” he says, pulling his shoes on. “Ready when you are.”

“Get a wiggle on, Georgie,” Owen says. He looks at his watch. They’ve got about a minute spare before they absolutely have to leave.”

“Sorry, sorry,” George says, flustered. He quickly does his shoelaces, then stands up. “Okay, I’m good to go.”

They make their way down to the main hall in silence. “Your family coming?” Owen asks. His aren’t; he isn’t getting his first cap today, and his dad’s busy anyway.

“My mum and Jacob are,” George says, fiddling with the cuffs of his jacket. Owen wants to rest his hands on top of George’s to make him calm down for a second. Somehow, he doesn’t think that would be appreciated.

They have to split up after that, George directed to the front row with the others getting their first caps. Owen works his way through the throng of family members until he finds Elliot and Jamie, lurking in a corner and talking quietly, heads together.

“Hey, lads,” he says loudly, and they spring apart. “How’s it going?”

“Good, good,” Elliot says. “We were just saying – d’you think they’ve changed the colour of the blazers since last year? I could’ve sworn they were darker last time, but Jamie says it’s the same.”

“Maybe it’s just the lighting in here?” Owen offers. He doesn’t have much of an opinion either way, and he can’t see why it merited such deep discussion between the pair.

Before the strange conversation can get any further, the coaches are calling them to their seats. “Look at Fordy’s brother,” Jamie hisses. “He’s like an even smaller version of him!” Elliot cranes his neck to see, while Owen stays in his seat. He knows what Jacob looks like, and he’s inclined to agree.

The ceremony runs like clockwork, each player earning his first cap going up to the front in turn and shaking hands with the bigwigs. Owen can see George’s mum and brother with him afterwards in the crowd and, as much as he wants to go up and congratulate him, something holds him back.

“Go on,” Jamie says with a little shove. “It would mean a lot to him, and I bet his mum likes you.” Owen shrugs. Sally-Anne is quite fond of him, he’d have to admit, so there isn’t much evidence opposing Jamie’s argument. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he weaves through the players and coaches and all relatives.

George spots him over his mum’s shoulder, and he breaks into a grin. “Mum, it’s Owen!” he says, delighted like they’ve just met for the first time in years, not after a thirty-minute meeting.

“Oh, hello, darling,” Sally-Anne says, turning to greet him. “You all look so grown up in those jackets, I was just telling George.” Owen smiles, kisses her cheeks obediently when she leans in.

“Are your parents not here?” she continues. George pulls a face behind her back. Jacob just looks bored.

“They came last year, when I had my first cap,” Owen says, wanting to defend his parents.

“Ah, that makes sense,” Sally-Anne says. She smiles, a mischievous flicker in her eyes. “Well, it might not be a big occasion for you, but it is for my little Georgie. I could take a picture of you both to commemorate it! Go on, put your cap on, sweetie.”

Even though it’s phrased as a question, Owen knows there’s no point arguing. He shuffles next to George against a relatively blank wall, letting his hand rest on George’s back. Before he has time to smile, she’s taken the photo.

“Oh yes, that’s lovely. Thank you, Owen, love,” she says, looking at the camera screen.

“It’s fine,” he murmurs. “I’ll see you later, yeah?” he says lowly to George, voice carrying under the general hubbub in the room.

“I’ll text you,” George whispers back, and then Owen is moving away. It’s a special day for the Fords, and he should leave them to enjoy it as a family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The photo Sally-Anne takes at the end of the chapter.](https://i.dailymail.co.uk/1s/2019/10/30/21/20398224-7632467-image-m-5_1572471845358.jpg)
> 
> As ever, I hope you enjoyed this update, and I'd love to hear what you thought in the comments or on [my new tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com/)!


	5. Chapter 5

They sit next to each other on the coach ride up to Newcastle for the Scotland game. As much as their recent run of victories flatters them, it’s been drilled into them not to underestimate the Scots, not to get complacent. A buzz of nervous excitement is in the air, and George is twitching almost imperceptibly in his seat beside Owen.

“Calm down,” he says, knocking their knees together. “You’ll be worn out if you keep this up – we don’t play for another thirty hours.”

George looks at him balefully. “Alright, wise one. Distract me.”

“Doing anything nice on the week off?” Owen asks, casting around for something to talk about.

“Going to school.” George fixes him with an unimpressed glare. “My grandparents are coming round for my birthday, seen as I’ll be away on the actual day.”

Owen knows his eyes have widened. He knew it was George’s birthday in a fortnight, but somehow it had slipped his mind among all the ‘saving their friendship’ and ‘international rugby training camp’ going on around them. He needs to come up with a gift idea, and fast.

George chuckles. “Mate, I don’t care if you don’t give me a present. I wouldn’t mind if you twisted your ankle or something and let me take the conversions against Scotland, though.”

Owen slaps him, not too lightly. “Don’t jinx it! My knee’s bad enough as it is.”

George has the grace to look apologetic, and they lapse into silence. He falls asleep a few hours in, and Owen’s left with nothing to keep his attention. Sure, he has a book in his bag, but the situation’s not that desperate. He twists around in his seat to see who’s behind them.

Elliot and Jamie are asleep too, curled into each other. Jamie’s head is resting on Elliot’s chest, and Elliot’s arms are draped protectively around his friend.

Owen’s first thought is that it looks incredibly uncomfortable; their necks are going to hurt like hell when they wake up. On the other hand, at least some people aren’t bored out of their minds. He’s in the window seat as well, so he can’t even escape to the back of the bus where they’re playing cards. Instead, he has to sit and watch the English countryside roll past.

The Yorkshire Dales are nice, but there’s only so many rolling hills he can take.

By the time they get to the hotel, he’s beyond antsy. If they were to run the fitness drills at that moment, he would beat everyone, even the wingers, he decides. There’s so much pent-up energy coursing through him. Maybe George would be up for a run, if he asked nicely…

It’s dinner first, though, so he has to sit through that as well, feet tapping on the floor and knees bouncing incessantly. Billy keeps shooting him dirty looks from across the table, so he forces himself to keep still. It’s harder than it looks.

He ends up excusing himself halfway through the meal and jogging to the toilet. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do there – some jumping jacks in one of the cubicles? He just needs to get out for a few minutes and settle himself down.

Only one of the cubicles is occupied when he walks in, so he opts for the one furthest away from it. He doesn’t want anyone reporting mysterious noises in the toilets if he can help it. He locks himself in, and works out a quick circuit. Thirty squats, thirty press-ups against the wall (he’s not touching the floor; he has standards), thirty star jumps, all repeated three times. It shouldn’t take too long, and it might be enough to calm him down for the rest of dinner.

He's huffing his way through the final set of press-ups – he’s switched to doing them one-armed for more of a challenge – when he hears a noise from the other cubicle. The door hasn’t opened or closed in the time he’s been in there, he’s sure of that, so it must be the person already in here. He waits a second to see if the noise comes again, but there’s nothing save the racing of the blood in his ears.

He resumes the circuit, making sure to jump extra softly so the other person in the loos won’t wonder what he’s up to. It would be just his luck to walk out and find one of the coaches waiting to question him on why he’s making weird noises in the toilets when he’s meant to be eating dinner with the rest of the squad.

Owen finishes his jumping jacks, flushes the toilet for effect, and goes out to wash his hands. It’s not a coach that’s waiting for him by the sinks, though – it’s Elliot and Jamie, both looking shifty. “Are the other toilets not working?” he asks, surreptitiously wiping some water on his forehead to get the sweat off.

“Um, yeah, they’re fine,” Elliot stammers. Now Owen looks at them again, he sees that they’re both a bit red too. Maybe they were working off some excess energy from the coach journey as well?

“That’s good,” he says, drying his hands on a paper towel. “Did you guys just come in? I could have sworn I didn’t hear the door, and there was only one toilet in use when I came in?”

“Yep!” Jamie says, oddly loudly. “You must not have heard them leave and us come in, that’s all.”

Owen shrugs. Perhaps the exercise had distracted him from the sound of the door more than he’d thought. “Eh, whatever. You going back now?”

“Suppose so,” Elliot answers.

Owen follows them out. The back of Jamie’s neck is still bright red, and Elliot’s isn’t much better. It can’t be sunburn in March – although they’re both quite pale for rugby players and in general, so it’s not outside the realms of possibility. He puts it out of his mind. He’s got the rest of a plate of food to work through, which obviously takes priority over working out how Elliot and Jamie got into the toilets and the mystery person got out.

*

It's absolutely pissing it down with rain when they go out to the stadium for the captain’s run on the morning of the game. Owen doesn’t know what the rest of the lads were expecting, hearing their complaints, but it is March. They’re in England, and the north at that. Of course it was going to rain.

The coaches forbid them from tackling in their quick practice session, if only to keep some of the grass intact where it’s peeking out from between the quickly-forming puddles. There’s a bit of a wind picking up as well, which is chilling Owen to the core. He’s infinitely grateful that Fletcher and the other coaches decided to start him alongside George instead of leaving him to catch hypothermia on the bench.

“You alright?” he asks George as they clank inside afterwards. The floor’s slippery and wet where the rest of the team have gone before them, and George’s hair is plastered to his forehead in damp spikes.

“Bloody cold,” he says, teeth chattering. “It doesn’t rain like this in bloody Harpenden, does it?”

“Softens you up,” Owen agrees sagely. He takes pity on his smaller teammate and wraps an arm around his shoulders, rubs at the skin to get the blood flowing a bit more. George doesn’t have the advantage of size that the rest of the guys have – some of the forwards are probably operating on a principle similar to seals and blubber, or whatever the analogy is – so he needs all the help he can get.

Somehow they all dry off, leaving thick, humid air hanging in their wake and wet socks scattered across the floor and stuffed under the benches. Owen tries wringing his socks out in the showers, but it doesn’t help much. He’ll only be putting them back on and sticking his feet straight into sodden boots, anyway.

The weather’s mostly cleared up by the time the game starts, the groundsmen having worked some magic to dry up most of the standing water. That doesn’t stop England opening the floodgates, though.

JJ scores, then Christian (straight off a beauty of a pass from George, Owen has to note), then Joe. Owen himself makes a break from the restart, offloads to Jack, and he’s in for a try. _At what point does this become bullying?_ he wonders as the scoreboard ticks over to show 27-0 in England’s favour at halftime.

Then George scores off a scrum – they recycle the ball a few times, Owen crashing it up through the middle, and the scrumhalf makes a great pass to put George through an obvious gap. They all mob him, of course, and then it’s back to it, game heads firmly on.

Then JJ scores _again_ , and Marcus gets one that Owen really thought he could have had himself if not for one stupid Scottish defender deciding to tackle for once. Then it’s Sam, and Charlie Matthews, and they’re all looking at each other, the _let’s push for ten_ clear in their eyes. Scotland are on their knees already – they don’t need to do this, but it would look so much nicer on the match report.

Nine tries is impressive, but ten is a drubbing.

It takes longer than it probably should have, with a few silly penalties interrupting their flow, but they eventually get the tenth try. Mako barrels his way over, and they celebrate. Five minutes left on the clock, and all they have to do is keep the ball and not do anything stupid with it.

It’s 63-0 at seventy-five minutes, and it’s 63-0 when the whistle blows.

The Scottish lads all look absolutely crushed, and Owen makes a point of meeting each player’s eyes as he shakes their hands, telling them _good game, well played_ with as much honesty as he can force into his voice. It’s not a lie – some of them did play well, at times. It’s probably just difficult to function as a unit when you’re being targeted from all sides, with every possible chink in the armour exploited within minutes.

(He wouldn’t know; he’s never been part of a team like that. He does have an imagination, though, and some empathy.)

The post-match dinner is nice enough. Even though they’re basically in Scotland with how far north they are, it’s still hosted by England in the bowels of Kingston Park. Alex stands to give his speech to no small amount of raucous cheering.

George won player of the match, because of course he did, and he goes up to accept the award from the coaches with a pretty blush on his cheeks. Coupled with his fluffy brown hair, it makes him look so young that Owen can see a few of the Scottish players whispering among themselves.

They’re probably wondering how such a tiny kid can be such a force on a rugby pitch, how he dismantled them with no regard for their alleged skill or actual size. Owen can sympathise with that – he’s been confused and impressed by it for years, at this point.

He’s sat with a load of Quins and London Irish guys for the meal, as well as the obligatory few Scots. There’s a lot of banter, particularly among the forwards, that flies right over his head. He just stays quiet and focuses on his food. It’s good, and he needs it.

After an hour or so, the coaches of their respective teams, in their roles as substitute parents, order them back to the buses. Owen shakes hands with a few of the Scottish guys again – he’s heard rumours of Maitland joining Saracens next season, and it can’t hurt to start building the relationship early – and heads out to the coach.

George is standing in the aisle, waiting for him to take his window seat. “Ayup,” George says brightly, before pretending to choke as Owen puts him in an affectionate headlock on the way past.

“Good day, huh?” Owen says, putting his seatbelt on. “First game, first try, first POTM – pretty solid, if you ask me.”

George beams. “And you let me take the conversions,” he adds. “I thought you’d forgotten that’s what you were giving me for my birthday, but you remembered!”

Owen’s knee twinges and he pushes the pain away, like he has for the last few weeks. Like hell he’s jeopardising his place in the team for some stupid ache. “Anything for you, little one,” he says, grinning. “Has your mum called yet? Thought she’d have been all over you by now.”

George laughs, pulling out his phone to check, just in case. “Nah, she knows we’re busy for a while afterwards – she has been doing this for a few years, you know. She said eight, probably, was when she’d call. I’ll text her now, though.”

Owen sinks into his seat, closing his eyes for a minute while George pecks out a text to his mum. He doubts his parents are going to call him – maybe a text, but nothing overboard. He didn’t score today, no matter how many times he came close, and that’s what makes the difference in the Farrell household.

It’s a short drive back to the hotel, but long enough to lull him into a sleepy quietness. The rest of the squad seem to be in the same state. The rain pattering on the roof of the bus, the low grumble of the engine: he could go to sleep right there without much complaint.

He tugs up his hood as they pile off the coach, grabbing random bags off the bottom of the bus and carting them into the lobby to be claimed by their owners. Because it was an afternoon match, it’s only 7:30, still light outside in spite of the low clouds.

Owen picks up his own bag and George’s and slings them over his shoulder. Their rooms are next to each other, and he might as well be useful at some point today, even if it comes four hours too late.

George’s phone rings on the way up to their floor, so he hands over the kit bag and goes to his own room. It’s dark when he goes in – presumably Chris is still down in the lobby with everyone else, maybe hanging out with his Bath mates.

He can’t bring himself to mind, though. The tackles from the opposition grew harder as the game wore on and moved out of their reach, the emphasis shifting from technique to desperation. One of their flankers had got him particularly hard in the ribs, and he levers himself down to the bed with a groan. It’s going to hurt like a bitch in the morning, especially with the trouble it’s giving him already.

If he strains his ears, he can hear the soft cadence of George’s voice through the wall, a contrast to the utter stillness and silence in his own room. It’s so utterly different to how he was earlier, too, barking out instructions and running the show with a steely determination in his eyes.

Owen envies his ability to separate the two parts of himself so easily. He’s dedicated to rugby, and it’s his whole life and his whole identity, and it’s usually fine. Sometimes, though, he wishes he could switch off and manifest a personality outside of the game.

One of his biggest fears is if he gets injured and has to retire early. His knees already ache after games and he’s had more than a few concussions. But if he doesn’t have rugby, who is he? Within the game – he’s a team player, willing to sacrifice himself for the common good, for the cause.

Outside the game – he’s known as a rugby player. If that’s taken away – he’s screwed, is the long and short of it.

The gentle lilt of George’s voice soothes him and settles the twisting anxiety in the pit of his stomach. It’s hardly the first time he’s had such thoughts, but it might be the first time that the difference was made so obvious.

George has a balance; non-rugby hobbies, interests, friends. Owen, though – if you looked at his blood under a microscope, you’d probably find mini rugby balls in place of platelets.

He’s eighteen, and he can’t help thinking of himself as a lost cause.

His eyes slide shut, and George’s murmuring lulls him to sleep, still fully-dressed on top of the covers. It’s been a long day.

*

The next week brings a slightly random match against Japan High Schools – 71-7 to England down in Exeter, but everyone’s pretty pissed about the try they let slip at the beginning of the first half. Owen was on the other side of the pitch to where it was scored, thank God, but he shares the frustration.

Then it’s two weeks off and a rush to catch up on the work he’s missed, which is essentially completing the A-level content for all three of his subjects and making an effort to start revising. The Easter holidays are nicely punctuated by a week in northern Italy, playing both Italy and Scotland in the space of four days.

Owen plays the first match while George is on the bench, and they swap for the second game. They’re still both absolute blowouts. Scotland seem, if anything, more nervous than before their first meeting of the season in Newcastle. England win, 75-0, and this definitely counts as bullying.

One of the Scottish players is on his knees crying at the end of the match, for God’s sake. Owen wants to pity him, but he really doesn’t have to do it right out there in the open, in front of the crowd of a couple of thousand disinterested Italians. _Do it in private like anyone else would_ , Owen thinks. _It’s not that hard, keeping it in for another five minutes._

Another two-week break beckons, although Owen already knows he won’t be called up to play against Wales. It’s established U18 policy that the Year 13s aren’t required to play during exam season, and for once – given his first business exam is little over a week after the Ebbw Vale match – he’s glad of the break.

It’s a tighter game than it would have been otherwise, but England still win, 23-36. Owen sneaks a look at the match report between practice papers, and sends a congratulatory message to the group chat and a more genuine one to George.

Thinking about it, this must be the first match he’s missed that he’s been eligible to play in for years. There was that one time in minis, when Elleshia broke her arm and his mum couldn’t supervise his game as well as take her to hospital. Then, a few years later, for a funeral, and – he can’t think of any other times.

The lack of rugby eats away at him, leaving an aching hole in his chest. He lives for the adrenaline, the power of calling the shots and the thrill of calling the right ones. He loves to surrender himself to the will of the team, becoming one of many and forgetting himself for a few hours. Now it’s not there, however briefly, he’s bereft.

He shakes his head and picks up his pen again. For all his worrying about what he’ll do if he has to stop playing – retaking his A-levels will not be on the list. Instead of letting himself sink into the mire of stress and anxiety, he buries himself in work and represses the emotions. He has more important things to be doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [George kicking off in his first U18 game.](https://www2.pictures.zimbio.com/gi/England+U18+v+France+U18+XbXowcvChS-x.jpg)   
>  [Highlights from the Scotland match described.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VfJHQ3aG-5o)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this update - second chapter of the week will be posted on Sunday morning as usual.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: this is the second chapter of the week, so please make sure you have read Friday's update before this one.

Repression only works for so long. He has his first exam on Tuesday morning, and it’s Sunday evening. His room is an absolute tip, paper strewn everywhere. He barely leaves except to eat or go to the toilet. It can’t be healthy, but he tells himself that it’s only for another five weeks. After that, he’s free – within reason, of course.

He’s settling in for a few more hours of cramming, which may or may not culminate in him bashing his head on his desk and retiring to bed to stave off his panic. It’s then that he hears a strange tapping noise. He opens his bedroom door, sticks his head out. Nobody’s waiting outside, and his sisters know better than to disturb him at the moment.

He sits back down. _Tap, tap, tap._ It sounds like it’s coming from behind him, so he walks to the window. When he looks out, he sees George stood on the front grass, tossing pieces of gravel up to his window.

“What the hell are you doing?” he says, annoyed, opening the window. “I’m trying to work!”

George seems sorry, from the way his shoulders hunch and he curls in on himself. “I need to talk to you,” he says softly, almost too quiet for Owen to hear from his first-floor window.

“About what?” he asks. He’s still irritated – the flashcards stacked on his desk are practically whispering at him, and it’s putting him on edge.

“Bradford,” George says, looking at the pile of gravel in his hands.

Owen’s heart skips a beat. He’s known this day was coming, in his heart of hearts, but he’s never imagined actually having the conversation. “I’ll be right down,” he promises, closing the window and giving himself a moment to gather himself. This is it, the two roads diverging in a yellow wood.

God, how much he wishes he could travel both. It would make this all so much easier.

He lets himself out of the front door, taking a key with him just in case. He doesn’t know how long this conversation will be, after all.

“You okay?” he asks George. He’s put all the gravel back around the paving stones of the front path, which is nice of him.

“Yeah,” George says quietly, not looking at him. “Park?”

They walk down the road in silence. Owen’s subconscious is playing him a loop of all the times they’ve made this same journey, no thoughts of the future clouding their minds or inserting themselves into the silences of their conversations. He hates it already, and George hasn’t even confirmed it yet.

George slumps down against the trunk of his usual tree, and Owen takes up his customary position opposite. If they both stretched, they could probably touch hands. As it is, it’s an insurmountable distance.

“So,” Owen says, just to break the silence. “What do you want to talk about?”

They both know, and it’s painful. Sometimes having a connection like they do can be a hindrance, not a help.

“You know Sam Burgess?” George says, picking at the grass between his crossed legs. It’s a stupid question – how could he not? They’ve watched games he’s played in together, cheering on England against New Zealand and countless others. He’s only a few years older than them, but already established in the Super League – for Bradford. Owen nods, not trusting his voice.

“Well, he’s been talking to me and my parents for the last few weeks, trying to get me to sign. Telling me how good it is, what a great atmosphere they’ve got, that kind of thing.” George has moved on to digging a hole by his feet, soil sticking under his nails. Owen can’t look away. “I mean, they don’t really need to. Joe tells us all about it anyway.”

He sighs, finally looking up at Owen. “I’ve decided to sign with them,” he says in a rush. “They’re willing to have me as injury cover for the last few months of the season, and the playoffs if they – we – make it that far.”

“Holy shit,” Owen says. There’s a buzzing in his ears. “That’s – I’m so happy for you, mate.”

Whatever he says, it doesn’t stop the sick feeling in his stomach. It’s happening now. George is going, going somewhere he can’t follow. Surely it’s too soon – he can wait another few months, so they can play together one last time.

That sparks a thought in his mind, sharp and edged with razor blades of a deep, desperate sadness. “Fletch isn’t putting you on the South Africa tour now, is he?”

George shakes his head. A quiver enters his voice for the first time. “No. Says it’s not worth developing a player who’s going to league anyway. They want to give the place to someone who would benefit from it – who deserves it.”

Owen hits the ground, suddenly angry. “That’s bullshit,” he swears. “You do deserve it. It’s not your fault that you’re so talented you can play both to such a high level.”

Deep down, he knows it’s not the England coaches he’s mad at; it’s a logical decision, and he understands. He’s angry that he’s played his last match alongside George and didn’t even know it, didn’t savour it enough. He doesn’t have the energy to put that into words, but George gets it. He always does.

Owen forces himself to calm down. This is good news for George, he reminds himself. He needs to be supportive. He can be devastated later, if he has time around his exams.

“When are you going?” he asks, shuffling forwards slightly. If this is the last time he gets to talk to George like this, then his usual rules can be abandoned. _Like this_ , though – the crucial words. Something’s already shifted between them. There’s no going back, and it hurts.

“Next month – after exams are over. Mum wasn’t too sure, but they’re putting me with one of the other young guys and his parents,” George answers, staring out over the empty playing fields. “I’ve been texting with him, the last few days. He seems nice.”

“What’s his name?” Owen asks. He needs someone to direct his anger towards.

“Rory,” George says. “He’s actually from Bradford, and he’s been in the academy for a while. Says he’ll show me the ropes.”

“That’s awesome,” Owen grits out. “It’s good they’re not just making you fend for yourself.”

“Yeah,” George says, a bit happier now. “A few of the older guys have got in touch too – Pauly, Beaver. They all seem pretty cool.” Owen has to bite his lip. Nicknames, already? He can practically see George receding before his eyes. Soon he’ll have dozens of northern voices calling him Fordy every day, not just him.

“So, uh, this is a bit of a last hurrah, then?” he says, feeling like he’s stabbing himself in the heart with every word.

“I’m not going yet,” George laughs, although he can’t meet Owen’s eyes. “Exams first, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Owen says. He has to drag the conversation back to safer ground, for his own sanity if nothing else.

They talk for ages, the light ebbing away around them until they’re only half-lit by the streetlights on the other side of the fence. “I should go and get some work done,” Owen says at last, struggling to his feet through the pins and needles immobilising his left leg.

“Oh yeah – Tuesday, isn’t it?” George says, hauling him up. Owen hates it, knowing that this easy knowledge of each other’s lives is only going to decline from here. They’re only teenagers – there’s decades left for him to mourn the loss, and he doesn’t know how he’s going to cope.

He knows he’s acting like a heartbroken idiot, but it’s the first time he’s lost a friend with this kind of permanency. It’s not like when he moved down south – no, George is moving nearly two hundred miles away, to _league._ He’s happy, he swears, but he’s also so, so sad.

“Yeah,” he says, too late to be casual. “A nice two-hour exam, my favourite way to start the day.”

George shudders. “My longest one is an hour and a half. That’s awful.”

“Just you wait,” Owen says, fixing his eyes on the road ahead. “I’ve heard English has one that’s two hours and forty-five minutes, you poor sod.”

George groans next to him. “Joy of joys,” he says sarcastically. “Let me guess, it’s on poetry?”

Owen shrugs. He’s not that well-versed on the intricacies of other subjects’ exams. “Knowing your luck, it’d either be that or Shakespeare.”

“Hey!” George protests, and keeps up an indignant defence of the canon of English literature all the way to Owen’s front door. He doesn’t have anything to contribute, couldn’t dredge up a coherent sentence if he tried, so he’s grateful.

George finally falls silent, and they face each other outside the door. Owen wobbles backwards, gravel crunching other his foot as he regains his balance. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” George asks hopefully.

Owen shakes his head. “Study leave,” he says. “Tuesday, though – if we can go a bit early.”

Maybe he’s imagining it to make himself feel better, but George looks disappointed in the half-light. “Works for me,” he says softly.

Then he takes a step back. “See you then, I guess.” He turns to leave, and Owen can’t let him go just like that. It’s not the end, but it’s the beginning of the end, and it’s too much, too soon.

“Tuesday morning,” he promises, gathering George up in a tight hug that surprises them both.

“For sure,” George murmurs into his shoulder, then pushes him away. “Goodnight, Owen.”

“Bye, mate,” he says, watching George walk away down the path, over the road, and into his own house. It’s the same separation as usual, but it feels different this time.

He won’t cry, he tells himself as he goes inside. He can’t. He won’t. He has dignity, and willpower, and an exam in thirty-six hours. He won’t cry.

(He does cry. The second his bedroom door closes behind him, he sinks to his knees and covers his face. He sobs like a baby.)

(It’s okay, though. Nobody ever has to find out. He won’t tell them.)

*

The relief of finishing each exam, of walking out of the exam hall and ticking them off the list stuck to his wardrobe is tempered by the knowledge that each exam, each day that passes, marks one day closer to George leaving.

He’s literally moving to Bradford the weekend after he finishes his exams – the last one is on Thursday afternoon, he’s going to pack, and then he’s going to leave on Sunday morning.

More than anything, Owen wants time to stand still. He doesn’t want to be stuck inside, shoving useless facts about ethical and environmental influences on marketing decisions into his brain. He wants to be outside, kicking a ball back and forth at the park with George.

But the days march past, and Owen can’t even monopolise George’s time on that last free Friday as he would like. His mum catches him on the way out the door, a sad look in her eyes, and rests her hands on his shoulders. “You can still see him tomorrow, love,” she says, taking the ball from under his arm. “Today, though – I think you need to revise. Last one on Wednesday, hmm?”

He shrugs, deflated, and takes the ball back. “Okay, Mum,” he says, and trudges back up the stairs. The bloody revision only gets harder when he hears George and Jacob chattering as they walk down the street to the park. He could be out there now with them, enjoying the summer sun and getting some practice in…

Owen snaps himself out of his daydream, tapping his pen on the desk to wake himself up. He has five days left of this bullshit, and then he’ll be free to do as he pleases; a proper adult, at last.

But by then, George will be gone, up north to follow his dream. He’s probably going to see George on TV sooner than he will in person, after tomorrow, Owen realises, and the tears are gathering behind his eyes once more like storm clouds on the horizon.

He knuckles at his eyes fiercely, then stares at his notes. Maybe if he works hard this morning, his mum will let him have the afternoon off? With that thought in mind, he gets to work.

At lunch, he makes sure to casually drop the stack of completed questions on the table to show what he’s done. (He might have inflated the pile by interspersing a few papers from his other subjects in the middle of the business questions, but that’s between him and his conscience.)

“Can I-?” he starts to ask, before his mum cuts him off.

“Have you asked if he’s allowed to go out?” she says with a smile, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

“Well, no, but he will be,” Owen says confidently. “He’s done for the year – his mum can’t say no. She’s probably at work, anyway.”

Colleen crosses her arms, leaning against the edge of the table. He’s taller than her like this – has been for years, but it’s even more noticeable from this angle – and it unnerves him. “Don’t you think his family might want to spend more time with him now, because he’s leaving in two days?”

Owen bites his lip. He hadn’t thought of that, selfish as ever. He wants to spend time with George, but of course his parents and brother do too. They should probably take precedence over a friend of a few years, but-

“It can’t hurt to ask, surely?” he says, suddenly nervous. He’s never questioned whether George would want to see him before, aside from that horrible time when he was just too awkward to talk about George making other friends.

“I wouldn’t think so,” his mum says, getting some stuff out of the fridge to make lunch with. “You just might not get as long as you were expecting, that’s all.”

He nods, takes the plates out of the cupboard and starts making their drinks. “Okay. I’ll go over after this and see what they want to do.”

He makes the familiar journey across the road after lunch, spinning a rugby ball nervously between his hands. He’s got a tee shoved in his pocket, just in case. He knocks and waits. There’s the usual scuffle of Leo running to the door, and then the sound of the key scraping in the lock.

“Hi, Owen,” George says, and it might be Owen’s imagination but he looks tired. _He finished his exams yesterday, you twat. Of course he looks tired._

“Hey,” he says, bending down to scrag Leo’s neck. “Park?” He shakes the ball a little, like they’ve ever had to explain what _park_ entails before.

George squints for a moment. “I can do a couple of hours,” he says, “but I have to be home to let Jacob in. Oh, and if you’re okay with bringing Leo along?”

“That’s fine,” Owen says, smiling down at the dog. “He’s always welcome.”

Except _always_ is now unexpectedly shortened, cut down to _today_ and _tomorrow_ and _the next time you’re home, probably September or October_. God, he’s maudlin today.

George flashes a thumbs up and darts back inside. The normal thundering of his feet on the stairs doesn’t come, and Owen is still halfway to parsing that realisation when George reappears in front of him. “You didn’t leave your boots in your room?” he says, confused. His friend is a neat freak: what’s going on?

“Nope,” George says, clipping Leo’s lead onto his collar as the spaniel bounces around his legs. “Just had to dig them out of a box in the living room.”

“So you’re all packed, then,” Owen says faintly. Maybe he had been clinging on to some slender hope that George wouldn’t leave, that this would all turn out to be a horrible dream. This, though – it’s really the end.

They walk along the road, Leo bumbling along between them. Everything they’ve managed to find time to do in the last few weeks since George broke the news, Owen has been mentally categorising as a ‘last’. He’s suddenly desperate to know if this is going to need the same label.

“What’re you doing tomorrow?” he asks, so awkwardly it would be laughable in any other situation.

“Some of the lads from school are coming round in the morning,” George says slowly, eyes straight ahead, “and then Mum and Dad are taking us for a fancy meal in London so that’ll be most of the rest of the day.”

That’s a yes, then, as far as his unspoken question goes. George is too busy on his last day in Harpenden for any kicking or hanging out. He’s going to spend time with his actual friends in the morning, and then with his family in the afternoon and evening. Owen doesn’t factor into those plans – no, he’s relegated to the day before. Somehow that makes the impending loss ache even more.

George gets Leo to sit and stay while Owen sets up his tee. Usually, his kicking routine – balance the ball, a few steps back, two to the side, look between the ball and the posts – would wipe all thoughts from his mind, but not now. Not today.

He swipes at the ball, sending it careering off to the side. He jogs after it, glad of the chance to hide his flaming cheeks. He’s meant to be good at this, for God’s sake – maybe he should be home revising, to make sure his backup is actually a viable option.

He takes another two shots at goal, both equally dire. One pings off the left upright, while the other hits the crossbar. If he were going for trick shots, he’d be laughing, but he’s really not.

He tosses the ball to George and flops to the ground next to Leo. The dog can clearly sense his mood, and nuzzles into his chest, licking at his chin. Owen cuddles him, grateful for the support. His dad would never do this for him, nor his very teenaged sisters, and – he’s a teenager too, asking his mum for a hug is a bit naff.

Leo’s another thing he’s losing, he thinks glumly. There’s no way the Fords would let him take their dog out for walks alone, and Jacob’s nice enough for someone eight years younger than him, but it would be weird. He settles for stroking the spaniel’s ears and watching George nail his three kicks. Clearly he’s not as concerned about his upcoming move as Owen so pathetically is.

They swap a few more times, Owen continuing his miserable performance and snuggling the dog when George isn’t looking. He’s conscious of time passing – a few hours, George had said, and surely they’re nearly halfway through now?

George kicks the last attempt of his set of three and watches the ball smack against the posts with a clang, hands on his hips. He twists to look at Owen on the floor behind him with a sigh. “Maybe it’s a sign,” he says, abandoning the ball to its fate and sitting beside his friend on the grass. “I shouldn’t push it now. I need to keep something in reserve.”

Something twists in Owen’s gut, and he holds Leo closer. He doesn’t want this to stop; he wants this afternoon to carry on forever, stretching out the agony of _George, leaving_ as long as is necessary to prevent it becoming _George has left_.

George reaches a hand out to play with Leo’s ears, and their hands touch for a millisecond where Owen’s fingers are tangled in the dog’s curls on his neck. It’s like the dog is a transmitter, filling the space between them to bring them closer even as they drift further apart. Maybe more of a magnet than a transmitter, then, Owen thinks absently, but then physics has never been his strong point.

“Are you starting training on Monday?” Owen asks, wanting to fill the dead air between them. This kind of awkward, tiptoeing silence isn’t normal for them, and he doesn’t want it to be his last memory of them together, when things were right and normal and good.

George scritches at Leo’s head one last time before pulling his hand back, leaning on his elbows and stretching his legs out in the sun. “Yep. They’re not putting me in the squad for the weekend straight away – that would be stupid – but if I can prove myself and I get lucky, it could be as soon as next week.”

Owen scoffs, even as his heart aches. “You don’t need luck. You deserve it, for all the hard work you put in, and your talent. They wouldn’t sign you if they didn’t want you to play. It’s just a question of if it’s this week or next.”

George looks at him, eyes crinkling. “Thanks, mate. It’s good to know someone’s got my back.” Then his face turns serious, and Owen’s already half-panicking by the time he speaks again. “I need to tell you something,” he says, and that doesn’t help Owen at all. Last time it was the contract that was taking him away – what else could there be?

George rolls on to his front, facing away from Owen. Leo whines and curls into George’s side. He noses at his neck, and George giggles. “Stop it, buddy,” he murmurs while pushing Leo’s face away. “This is important.”

Owen wants to lean forward, to look his friend in the eyes and just _know_ what’s up with him. Something stops him, though – he has to wait, whatever it is.

“I – hm,” George says, barely started before he’s juddering to a halt. “I’ve kind of wanted to tell you this for a while, but there was never a good time, and now – well, it’s the only time, you know?” Owen nods, even though George can’t see him. He’s still confused.

“I wanted to tell you,” he repeats, “and also – I couldn’t let myself go up north without telling someone. I need it to be out there, just a little.” He twists, still on his stomach, until he’s angled diagonally towards Owen. He catches Owen’s eyes for a brief moment before dropping away again. “I guess it doesn’t matter, really, since I’m leaving, but I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone. Like, I think you’re a good lad, and I trust you.”

Owen pats him on the shoulder, drawing George’s gaze to his hand. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s okay, mate. And I won’t tell, I promise.”

“Alright, then,” George says, taking a deep breath. “I’m – oh, fuck.” He drops his head to the grass and Owen hears a muffled yell. “Faz, I’m gay,” he says, voice strangled and shaking.

Owen blinks. George, gay? His mate, who’s moving up north in literally _two days_ to become a professional rugby player? He remembers Nigel Owens coming out a couple of years ago, and the muted reaction he’d received from some quarters.

Why is George telling him? Is he dating someone and needs comforting because he has to break up with them? Or – is he telling him because he likes _him_ , Owen Farrell? That last thought makes him feel all weird inside, and he can’t tell if it’s out of fear or something else.

“Owen?” George asks, still trembling. His feet are braced against the ground like he’s ready to run. “Say something, please.”

“Um,” Owen says dumbly. “Well done, I guess? I don’t know what to say. This has never happened to me before.”

“Is it okay?” George asks. Leo growls lowly, and Owen realises that he needs to do better.

George might be gay, but he’s still _George_ , one of his best mates.

“Yes,” he decides, “of course it is.” The tension drains from George’s body and Leo gives him a big lick up the side of his face. “I don’t care who you want to get with – I like you as a person, and it doesn’t matter to me. You’re still going to be an awesome rugby player and this doesn’t change that.”

George is shaking again, only this time it’s from tears, Owen realises. “Hey, come here,” he says, holding his arms and letting George come to him.

“Thank you,” George sniffles against his chest. “I was so worried – thought you’d go and tell my dad, or something.”

“Never,” Owen says fiercely. He’s glad it’s still term time for most people, and the park is deserted apart from them. Nobody needs to witness George clinging to him and getting his T-shirt all wet, after all. “Why now, though?” he asks, curious.

George wipes at his eyes. “I don’t know. I sort of thought – if anyone up there found out, I’d have someone who already knew as backup, to help me out.”

Owen nods. “I get that. Thank you for trusting me – though I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

George shrugs. “I’m not going to do anything that might out me, it was more a just in case thing.”

“I’m really going to miss you, mate,” Owen says finally, rocking George slightly to soothe him. “I just- yeah. It’s not going to be the same again, is it?”

He’s thought about this for far too long in recent months: how, if George, by some miracle, decided to go for union instead, they could hang out with each other during matches, and there would be time together in international camps too, if everything went well.

With George in league, it’s going to be so much harder. No common ground save maybe watching each other’s matches on television. Him playing in European matches, and George flying to Perpignan and Toronto twice a year for the Super League, and Australia as well. Their offseasons aren’t even at the same time, without the added complication of international tours.

It’s hard to see how they can sustain any kind of friendship going forward. Owen is willing to try, as with everything in his life, but it’s going to be difficult. No hugging in parks a few minutes away from their houses, that’s for sure.

“No,” George says softly, and he’s probably still upset from earlier. Owen wouldn’t know; he’s never been in that situation, and never will be. It’s brave, though, he has to acknowledge. “No, it won’t. We’ll still be friends, right?”

Owen hates the tentativeness of his voice. “Of course. We probably can’t call that much because our parents will kill us, but we can text every day. And I’ll tell you when I’m up north with my family, and you’ll tell me when you’re coming to visit so we can meet up.”

George hums, seemingly satisfied. “I like that. It sounds nice.” Owen yawns. This kind of conversation is draining – not keeping in touch with his Wigan mates was a good decision, in retrospect.

Then George is shooting to his feet, nearly whacking Owen in the face in his haste. “I need to be home when Jacob gets in from school,” he says in answer to Owen’s confusion. “That’s in about-” he checks his phone- “five minutes, if he isn’t early.”

The sinking, drowning, misery clawing at his throat feeling is back, and Owen stands on unsteady legs. There’s been a time limit on their friendship for weeks now, almost like a ticking time bomb, and being told it’s about to explode fills him with a million different shades of sadness.

He catches his tee when George flicks it to him, and then they’re heading home, following the same pavement and carrying the same equipment as always. George stops at the start of the path up to his front door, and Owen turns to face him.

“This is it, then,” George says, lower lip trembling and a horrible finality descending on the conversation. “I’m going to miss you.”

“Me too,” Owen says, then thinks _fuck it_ and pulls him into a crushing hug, squeezing at his ribcage. Maybe if George breaks a rib, he’ll have to stay at home to recover…

He dismisses the thought. He’s being ridiculous now. “I’m really proud of you,” he murmurs into the top of George’s head. “For Bradford, and for coming out. You’re going to do so good, and I’m going to be cheering you on every step of the way.”

George hugs him back. “I’ll hold you to that – even when we’re playing in Toronto in the middle of the night, you’ll be watching, yeah?”  
Owen laughs despite himself. “Especially then. No chance of it overlapping with my games, is there?”

They hug and hug, neither boy wanting to break the moment. It’s – Owen doesn’t even have the words to describe the mess of emotions vying for dominance in his head.

The sound of someone coughing forces them apart in surprise. Owen sees Jacob standing there, rucksack and school uniform, and flushes. George seems to feel the same way. “I’ll see you around, mate,” he says, then moves to follow his little brother inside.

“See you soon,” Owen echoes. He’s not in the habit of making promises he can’t keep, so he’s going to try his hardest to make this one come true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we diverge from canon, at long last...
> 
> I'd love to hear what you thought about this chapter either in the comments or over on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com/) \- I made a moodboard for this fic! I attempted creativity in a visual medium! I hope you all have a good week.


	7. Chapter 7

He takes himself out on a long bike ride on Sunday morning, unable to focus on his work or even think about seeing George’s life being packed into the Fords’ car and driven away.

The wind on his face is supposed to feel good, like he’s being wiped clean, but all that comes of it is having to pull over to the side of the road and bend over the handlebars of his bike, eyes streaming. There’s got to be some gravel in there somewhere, he swears.

Several such incidents later, the sun has reached its zenith and he decides to head home. His whole body hurts – head, heart, thighs, calves – and he knows that he’s going to pass out the second he climbs into bed after a shower and a snack. It’s just the kind of oblivion he needs right now.

The car in the driveway opposite is gone when he turns into the road. It’s done, then. George is off on his marvellous adventure, and Owen is still at home, in Harpenden, living and playing with his dad for the foreseeable future.

His mum must hear him crunching up the path to ring the doorbell, because she opens the door with a sad smile on her face. “Give us a hug, sweetie,” she says immediately. Because he loves her, and she’s kind enough to ignore his sweaty, tear-stained skin, he does, folding himself around her smaller figure and hugging her tight.

She strokes his hair when he pulls away. “Here’s the key to the garage,” she says, handing it to him. “Once you’ve put your bike away and had a wash, I’ve kept some roast warm for you. Dad’s already eaten, don’t worry,” she says, predicting his question. “It’s fine if you want to eat upstairs – I know today’s not an easy day for you.”

He’s so, so grateful for his mum sometimes, and he makes sure to tell her that before he goes to put his bike back in the garage. He closes the door behind him, making sure not to look back at the Ford house, empty of the one inhabitant that matters to him.

Andy’s sacked out on the sofa, snoring, when he creeps past, so he lets himself have another five minutes in the shower before going to his room and eating lunch. The food is good as always, he’s sure, it just tastes like sawdust in his mouth. He just wants to give his body the fuel it needs, and then sleep away the rest of the day to give his mind the break it needs.

He’s allocated Sunday as a day off in his revision timetable. There are no distractions anymore, nothing that can interest him more than revising.

It’s Monday, and then Tuesday, and then it’s Wednesday lunchtime and he’s done with exams and so, so happy and relieved and utterly drained.

His mum comes to pick him up for once, letting him zone out in the passenger seat as she takes him home. _Just finished the last one_ , he texts George before closing his eyes. _Going to sleep for a thousand years._

By the time they’ve got home and his mum has woken him up again, a reply is waiting for him. _lucky you offseason_ , George has sent nonsensically. _about to get beaten up by twenty-five men for being from wrong side of the Pennines :(_

Owen snorts. _You’re being paid, I think you can put up with it._

_dick. at least Beaver (Australian so no pennine loyalty) promised to protect me_ , George pings back. _have a good nap though sleeping beauty!!!_

Owen smiles at his phone. Maybe the future isn’t quite as grim as he’d imagined it.

_Stay safe little guy_

_f you_

*

His dad announces his retirement a few days later, and that he’s transitioning into a coaching role with Saracens instead. Owen isn’t too fussed; it changes very little about his day-to-day life because he’s still going to training with and being shouted at by his dad most days. It gives him a better chance at establishing himself in the first team as well, which he’ll never complain about.

He had his first official game with the seniors the year before, but it was only as a replacement in some shitty loss against Scarlets. Youngest player in English professional rugby union, but he’s a bit whatever about it. He’s pushing for a start now, already elevated to Charlie’s backup with his dad’s retirement.

It’s only a matter of time until Charlie’s injured, or the coaches decide to rest him and give Owen some more experience. A fire burns in his belly at the mere thought, and he knows everyone else has noticed the difference – first on his final England U18 tour to South Africa, and then when he comes back to the club in August.

If he’s preparing to make his first start, then George is already streets ahead of him. Of course, it helps that Bradford are in the middle of their season, not endlessly training in preseason, but one of their centres and a standoff both rolled their ankles in a torrid match against Catalans, meaning George was parachuted in to a starting berth after a month with the team.

He’s sixteen and five months to the day when he kicks off to start the match against Wigan. Owen and Andy are glued to the TV screen for their hometown team as well as George’s first pro league game. He’s been saving his texts for the first fortnight of the month to make sure he has enough left to send George sufficient congratulatory messages.

The television cameras find the Fords in the crowd, the boys all looking deeply invested while Sally-Anne bites her nails. Owen can sympathise with her; George is tiny when he’s standing next to him, and all these hulking adults make him look like the child he is.

It’s a loss in the end for Bradford, but a narrow one. They outplay themselves, really – Wigan have been on track for the title since before the Magic Weekend, and Bradford are in the bottom half of the table. Nonetheless, the television shows George grinning after the final whistle, black, red, and yellow chevron sitting proudly on his puffed-out chest. He’s in his element.

_Great job,_ Owen sends, after some deliberation. _I won’t pretend I’m not happy Wigan won, but you guys were awesome._

George responds about ten minutes later – presumably he’s just checked his phone after the speeches. _thank you!!! kind of glad it’s over with, been stressing about it all week_

_I couldn’t tell, honestly. Your kicking was so good too – all our practice must have paid off ;)_

_yeah, that was all you, mate_

_srsly though, was I alright?_

_the lads have been saying I was, but then they have to_

_I think they think I’m their collective son_

Owen snickers. _Nah, baby Fordy did good. Even my dad was impressed!!_

_!!! must have been good. gtg now, speak soon_

_You know it,_ Owen sends, then slides his phone into his pocket. He’s started making sure he has it on him at all times, just in case George messages him. Jamie’s been teasing him that he’s addicted, but it’s worth it. George is worth it.

*

As the season looms, he’s getting busier and busier. His dad’s started bringing video from their training sessions home with them, arguing that he needs to get an edge on the competition and he hasn’t got any schoolwork to be distracted with anymore.

The other coaches are pulling him into more meetings with the other halfbacks during the day and sometimes after training has officially ended. He’s pleased about it – it’s a sign that his hard work is paying off with his deeper integration into the squad – but it’s also absolutely exhausting.

Sometimes his phone will buzz during a meeting and he’ll know it’s George but can’t answer, or it’ll go off while he’s slumped on his bed after dinner and he doesn’t have the energy to respond. He doesn’t know how George has the energy to be texting him at all hours of the day either, to be completely honest.

Owen would estimate that he manages to answer two thirds of George’s messages within a few hours. It still makes it difficult, when they’re working to different schedules with no idea of what the other is doing when, to have a flowing, natural conversation.

Weeks pass, and the union season starts at long last. Owen has two strong performances off the bench, and then he’s starting, just like he’s dreamed and worked for. He wins – _take that, George_ – and even has to do a post-match interview for live TV.

_you looked like a fish out of water_ , George texts him afterwards. _never ‘eard so many dropped hs in my life_

He doesn’t deign that with a response, at least for a few minutes. Once he’s come up with a suitably witty response, he shoots back, _well, the lads were brilliant, you can’t deny that. Better than yours anyway lol_

_alright hotshot. we can’t all go straight in at the top_

Maybe he had gone a bit far, in retrospect. It doesn’t stem the flow of texts from Bradford, though, and for that he’s grateful.

*

George’s lads fall far short of brilliant in the final few games of the league season, finishing in ninth – one place out of the playoffs. Owen knows that George will be beating himself up for not performing better, so he makes sure to remind him that he’s only been on the team for a couple of months and that it is actually a team sport, no matter what the newspapers might say.

George seems to bounce back from the disappointment soon enough, and his texts turn to planning his return journey home from North Yorkshire.

_do you think my parents would like a surprise if I got the train back?_ he asks, two days after the season ends. Owen’s on a bus to Northampton for a Sunday match, so he’s got time for a real-time conversation for once.

_Aren’t they going to pick you up soon anyway?_

_they haven’t said anything yet but I’d hope so!! but as a surprise, yay or nay_

_Idk, they’re your parents. Maybe ask Jacob, he probably knows the mood at home better_

_I’d be happy to pick you up from the station if you need_ , he adds as an afterthought. More time with George is a win in his book.

_that’s a good idea, I’ll text him now. could be cute though???_

_Yeah, but make sure they haven’t got time off work to pick you up first before you turn up at the front door_

_okay o wise one_

_no spur of the moment decisions_

_I don’t think Beaver would let me go without an actual adult from home giving me permission anyway_

_I’m an actual adult from home…_

_exactly! maybe I’ll make a permission slip for you to sign that I can give to him, he’d love it_

_Email it to me if you want, weirdo_

George replies with an angel emoji, and then Owen has to lock his phone because Jamie’s hanging over the seat behind and peering at his screen.

“Is that Fordy?” he asks, interested.

Owen weighs up his options. He settles pretty quickly for telling Jamie the truth – he’ll drag it out of him eventually; he might as well get it out of the way now. “Yep,” he says. “What, is he not talking to you?”

Jamie scoffs. “No, of course he is. Me and El and him have a group chat, if you must know. But I doubt you two talk about the same stuff as us.”

Owen shrugs, choosing to ignore whatever Jamie’s trying to insinuate. “He wants to surprise his parents by coming home on the train, and I said I’d be happy to drive him from the station, that’s all.”

“Aww, that’s sweet,” Jamie coos, ruffling his hair. “Keeping the bromance alive, you know?” Owen pretends he doesn’t see the nervous look his friend shoots across the bus to the Vunipola brothers, a few rows back.

(Billy hasn’t been as openly antagonistic to Jamie since they moved up to the senior team, but they all know it could happen at any time and that keeps them on edge.)

“We’re trying,” Owen says. “How’s Elliot, anyway?”

Jamie hops into the seat next to him and straps himself in, clearly ready to regale Owen with Elliot’s life story since they last saw each other in South Africa. Being a bit younger, he’s still languishing in the Wasps academy, but it doesn’t sound like he’s doing too badly for himself.

“And he still has school,” Jamie laments, “so he’s busier than me. All the times I suggest meeting up somewhere, his mum makes him stay at home and do his homework first, and then we have no time to plan and actually do anything.”

Owen pulls a face. At least he and George don’t have that issue – the overlap of free time in their two clashing schedules is so scarce that they often don’t notice it until it’s happening, and then there’s no time to jump on a four-hour train each way. It keeps expectations, and consequently disappointment, low, which can only be a good thing.

He might feel like he’s missing out on time with George, but it’s not a real sadness because he knows it’s not realistic to hope for more than they have.

He and Jamie complain about the difficulty of keeping long-distance friendships alive, and by the time the coach arrives at their hotel for the night, Owen’s gained a greater understanding of his friend.

He’s been keeping up with George for a couple of months, but Jamie’s been doing it for years with seemingly no side effects for his friendship with Elliot. It’s pretty impressive; he probably should be taking notes.

Later that evening, Owen’s phone buzzes with a text from George. _Jacob thinks it’s cute_ , it reads. _are you free Monday afternoon?_

He has to think for a second. They won’t be back too late in the evening tonight, so he can spend as long as he wants lazing around in bed in the morning before getting up to pick up George. _Yep! What time are you thinking?_

_probs the one getting in at 2:20. won’t have to wake up too early then lol_

_Lazybones._

_That’s fine for me though._

_awesome, thank you so much!!!_

_Do I get Leo cuddles out of this at least?_ He’s not doing this for free, after all.

_you can have George cuddles as well if you want mate, you’re doing me such a favour_

Owen has to force himself to breathe at the very prospect. It’s been so long since they’ve seen each other in real life – even a hug would be manna from heaven at this point.

_I’d’ve offered to drive you from Bradford if I knew that was on offer_

_maybe next time ;)_

He grins. In no time at all, he’s going to see George, and bring George home after too many months away. God, what if he’s picked up a Yorkshire accent? That would be the worst.

*

He’s distracted before the match and after, with those brief two hours locking him into the zone and then releasing him back out into a blizzard of George-related thoughts.

Jamie corners him in the carpark as the team are disbanding after the match. It was a draw, as rare as those are in their sport, and everyone’s a bit deflated. “Make sure you ask Fordy when he’s free,” he says. “I know I could text him, but it’ll be quicker to go through you – you’ll be yakking away to each other for ages.”

“Sure,” Owen says, opening his car door and dumping his kit bag on the front seat. His dad hadn’t come on the trip, for whatever reason, and he’s glad. He doesn’t want to be questioned on his good mood just yet. “I’ll ask.”

“Thanks, Fazlet,” Jamie chirps. “Knew you’d do me a solid.”

“Piss off,” he says, more fond than anything else, and Jamie bounces away, laughing.

He glances at the clock on the dashboard as he starts up the engine. Twenty hours until he sees George again.

_Twenty hours, max._

He can’t wait.

*

His parents are both at work and his sisters at school when he surfaces the next morning. Honestly, he thinks as he putters around, putting some toast on, all those people asking why he still lives with his parents haven’t got a clue. Lazy mornings like this just about balance out the constant feeling of being watched when the family are home.

(Plus, he doesn’t have to pay his own bills yet. What nineteen-year-old would turn down that deal?)

He eats his way through one slice too many of toast and a banana, then showers slowly. Because it’s October, he can’t exactly look good for George with his bog-standard hoodie and jeans, so he makes sure that his hair is arranged over his forehead in his preferred manner.

By then, it’s basically time for lunch, so he helps himself to some of the bacon in the fridge and has a bacon sandwich with fried egg. It’s not cordon bleu, but then he’s not picky.

After that, he washes up and sticks a random load of laundry into the washing machine, every inch the model son. He messes around on FIFA for a bit, waiting for the cycle to finish. When it does ping, he hangs out all the clean clothes on the drying rack thing – does it have a proper name? He should ask his mum, she’d know.

Then it’s two in the afternoon and he’s successfully procrastinated until it’s time to leave for the station.

He scans the interior of his car with a critical eye before setting off. There’s a bit of a mud and grass smell, but then he is a rugby player. George won’t mind – Beaver, or whatever the guy he’s staying with is called, probably has a similar-smelling car.

He parks in the short-stay carpark, then goes to wait by the ticket barriers. George is on the 2:20 from St Pancras, due at platform two in seven minutes. To kill time and slow his racing heart, he gets out his phone to text George.

_I’m by the ticket barriers. Have you got much stuff with you?_ He doesn’t know why he hasn’t thought about that before.

George replies with a row of smiley faces, then writes, _no, just a rucksack with toothbrush etc. Joe’s bringing the rest down at the weekend._

Owen feels like an idiot. George hadn’t been completely alone up there; Joe was living in the same area, even though Bradford had loaned him out to Halifax for the second half of the season. It begs the question why George isn’t coming home with his brother in a few days anyway, to save the expense of a train ticket, but then he’s not complaining. He’s never going to turn down Leo cuddles – or George ones, for that matter.

He comes back to himself as a train pulls into the platform opposite. The announcement tone goes over the tannoy, and he listens to the droning voice. _The next train to depart from platform two will be the 2:20 Thameslink service to Bedford. This train has six carriages._

That’s George’s train alright, and any moment now, George is going to appear on the other side of the tracks, barely twenty metres away.

A steady stream of midday commuters hustle out of the train and flood up and over the bridge, and Owen strains his eyes to see if there’s a short boy with a rucksack in their midst. He can’t see him, and the train is already pulling out of the station.

George isn’t among the passengers suddenly revealed by the train’s departure, and Owen’s heart rate picks up irrationally. He knows George was on that train, and he wasn’t asleep because they were texting just a few minutes ago. So George is here, somewhere, and it’s only a matter of time.

The barriers flap open and closed, open and closed, and yet none of them reveal George. He’s rooting in his pocket to get his phone out and ring him when-

“Ayup, mate!” George says from right in front of him, like he’s appeared out of thin air. Owen can’t stop his eyes flicking up and down his body, cataloguing the changes, before he looks back to his face.

It’s hard to tell under all the layers, but George looks bulkier, a bit broader. His face, too – there’s a hint of cheekbones where there were none before, and it could be the last remnants of puberty hitting him or just the more intense routine of a professional athlete.

“Finished staring?” George says, eyebrows raised.

Owen fiddles with his car keys, embarrassed to have been caught. “No – I mean, yeah. It’s been a while, huh?”

George laughs. “And you’re just as awkward as ever. Come on, where’s your car?” He tells Owen every little detail of his journey down as they walk through the carpark, how he’d got lost between platform 11B and platform 6 at Leeds and nearly missed the train in spite of the half-hour gap between arrival and departure.

Then there was the guy opposite him who snored for the whole two hours to Kings Cross – “And his _breath_ , mate! I thought I was going to have to change seats!” Apparently it had rained on the walk round the corner from Kings Cross to St Pancras, but he’d treated himself to a McDonalds as a late lunch/reward.

“The last bit was fine, to be honest,” he says, yawning and covering his mouth. “Half an hour with a load of puffed-up Londoners – they were all on their laptops the whole time; it was dead quiet.”

“Looks like you could do with a nap, mate,” Owen says, unlocking the car.

“Hmm?” George says, stifling another yawn. “Oh, yeah – travelling’s tiring, and we only finished on Friday. I’m going to sleep so well tonight. In my own bed, as well!”

“How’s it been for you, then?” he asks, putting the car into gear and backing out of the space. He’s focusing on checking the mirrors behind, so he doesn’t see the emotions flashing over George’s face.

“It’s been – different, I guess,” George says slowly. He’s gazing out of the window when Owen turns back to face the front. “Like, I was less homesick than I thought I would be. Obviously I had Joe and my grandparents nearby, and Beaver and his wife were great, and Mum and Dad came up for a few games.

“I just…” He sighs. “I don’t know what I was expecting. It was just – you’ve finished your exams, now go and do something completely different all the time where school stuff isn’t even relevant. It was kind of weird.”

“You enjoyed yourself, though?” Owen asks. He’s probably never going to have such a disruptive experience as George just did – he wants to stay at Sarries for as long as possible – but he wants to make sure his friend is okay.

“Yeah, of course,” George rushes to clarify. “The team’s amazing, and it’s so cool to be able to spend all your time playing rugby and being paid for it, you know? It was just a bit of a sudden change at first, that’s all.”

Owen indicates to turn into their road. “I did miss you, though,” he says, the words somehow coming easier when he’s not having to look at George. “Like, not just for kicking – other stuff too.”

When he sneaks a look out of the corner of his eye, George is staring at the road ahead – at his house, where he hasn’t been for months, Owen realises. “Same,” he says quietly, subdued. “I missed you, and kicking at the park, and everything that comes with home. I don’t think I’d noticed until just now.”

Owen parks his car in its usual spot at the end of the drive. “Well, we’re here,” he says, after an extended pause. “You want me to come with?” He drums his fingers on the steering wheel while George considers.

“It would probably calm my mum down, if she knew someone she trusts got me from the station,” he says with a small smile. “I don’t think she’ll be too annoyed, but it can’t hurt.” He cracks open his door, and Owen does the same. “Besides, I think I promised you Leo hugs as payment?”

They get out of the car and George hauls his rucksack on for the short walk across the road. Owen desperately wants to remind him that George cuddles were part of the deal too, but it’s a bit weird now. Knowing his luck, Sally-Anne would open the door and find them hugging on the front step. Maybe later, he decides.

George rings the doorbell, and Owen hovers a few metres behind him. Leo’s scratching at the other side of the door already, like he knows who’s waiting for him. Then there’s a key in the lock, and the door handle turning, and then George’s mum is stood there. Her hands fly to her face and he can hear her shocked gasp.

“Hi, mum,” George says, shifting from foot to foot, and she yanks him into a hug.

“George Thomas Ford,” she whispers fiercely, “what on _earth_ are you doing here? We thought you were coming home next week.”

George shrugs, tilts his head at Owen, who waves nervously. “Owen picked me up from the station – thought it would be a nice surprise.”

“Hello, darling,” Sally-Anne says, registering Owen’s presence for the first time. “That was very kind of you.” She turns her attention back to her son. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled to have you back, but – wasn’t it a tad dangerous? All the way from Yorkshire, by yourself?”

George coughs. “Beaver made me text him every time I changed trains, Mum. And honestly, I’m not five. It was fine.”

She tuts lovingly. “I know you think you’re all grown-up now, but you’re still my little Georgie.”

Owen has to stifle a snort at that, and he knows George heard it because he raises his middle finger behind his back. “If that’s all,” he says, “I’ll leave you to it. I don’t want to get in the way.” Sally-Anne starts to protest, but Owen knows he isn’t really wanted there.

“I’ll come over tomorrow,” George promises, twisting to look at him. Owen nods and backs away. He’s had half a conversation with one of his closest friends and facilitated a happy family reunion – all in all, a fairly successful day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might change to updating this twice a week, just so it doesn’t drag on for too long (I have thirty-seven more chapters ready to post, for context) - if you have a preference either way, please let me know in the comments. I’m concerned about posting too much and overwhelming things, so reassurance would be appreciated!
> 
> I’m also on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com/).


	8. Chapter 8

George knocks on Owen’s door as promised after tea. “It’s mine!” he yells, running to get the door first. He doesn’t want to lose George to the clutches of his mum – or worse, his dad – for a second longer than he absolutely has to.

“Evening, mate,” he says, opening the door and trying to catch his breath at the same time. He’s not very successful.

“Can I come in?” George asks after a few seconds of them staring at each other. “Didn’t really dress for the cold, that’s all.” He’s wearing a Bradford jumper and trackies, and Owen ushers him inside.

He’s too busy panicking over how to start the conversation to steer George away from the photos lining the hall. “Is that-?” George asks, bending closer to the biggest one. It’s in pride of place on the wall, and Owen hates it.

He looks awful – barely past his dad’s elbow, and standing next to a trophy half his size, arms crossed and trying to look tough. He must have been seven at most. It’s almost a rite of passage for his friends to see the photo and mock him for it – a sign they’re comfortable in the friendship, or something stupid like that.

“Wow,” George says, laughter bubbling up into his words. “ _Wow_ , mate. That’s a look and a half.”

“Yeah, alright,” Owen scowls, trying to chivvy George along. “Moving on, please.”

“No, no, let me have a proper look,” he snickers, peering at it again. “Nope, still cute,” he concludes with a broad grin.

“And probably about the same weight as you are now,” Owen grumbles. He gives up and shoves George unceremoniously up the stairs to his room. It’s too cold for casual kicking trips to the park, and George is meant to be recovering from his first season in the big leagues.

“I’ve grown, actually,” George counters. “Put on half a stone, and four centimetres.” He’d been right about the growth spurt, then.

“Four centimetres, wow,” he whistles. “You’ll be playing bloody lock soon if you keep that up.”

“Still not as tall as Joe, though,” George says, face losing some of its humour.

Owen pulls him down to sit on the bed next to him. “Yeah, and Joe’s what, twenty? Twenty-one? You’ve got plenty of time to catch up, don’t worry. Anyway, you’re taller than your dad, and he did fine for himself.”

George harrumphs. “Yeah, well. I suppose you weren’t looking to talk through my lack of height complex, were you? How’ve you been?”

Owen leans back on the wall by the bed, stretches his legs out. They’re just touching George’s, where he’s sitting against the headboard. The contact grounds him and somehow lets him be more honest, less careful with his words.

He hasn’t felt this kind of freedom to just _talk_ in ages, and it might be helped by the fact that George is no longer a rival. Almost everyone in his life is part of the same team, but there’s constant friction and jostling for position as they fight to be named in the squad for the weekend, or one of the various England teams.

He might talk to Jamie, given they’re never going to be in direct competition for a place on the field or on the bench, but there’s still a lingering worry that he could take any information he chooses to share and use it against him.

He doesn’t like to think about his friends like that, but it’s just part of the sport and how things have to be. He would never put Jamie or Kruiser in the same category as Billy, for example, but some distance can be useful.

With George, there’s no such concern – the distance between them is big enough already, so he doesn’t have to hold himself back. Whatever some random Australian backrower named after a rodent thinks of him based on George’s reports has little to no impact on his daily life.

So he talks. He tells George about how his dad’s retirement has changed the dynamic of their relationship, how half their little academy group have made the step up to the senior team, how the presence of some proper adults has mainly kept Billy away from Jamie – from what he’s seen and heard.

He tells him about matches won, lost, and drawn, and about flying to some European games instead of always driving, and about this one girl who keeps coming up to him after matches.

He thinks she might be someone’s sister, but he doesn’t want to ask. She’s nice enough, and everyone who’s noticed them talking says she’s going to ask him out soon. He doesn’t know how to feel about it.

“What about you, mate?” he asks, suddenly aware that he’s been talking for ages. “Any northern lads caught your eye – or more, now you’re not living with your parents?”

George winces at that, but Owen’s still too caught up in his own residual awkwardness to notice. “Firstly,” he says tightly, “Beaver and his wife are basically my parents – maybe more aunt and uncle, but they aren’t letting me run wild. Secondly, I’m sixteen. Even jailbait isn’t that young.”

Owen pokes his calf. “No, but… You can’t have spent two months up there without _someone_ , surely? You’re not a rugby monk – you’re not the type.”

George squirms under his gaze. “Okay, there was this one time…” he murmurs, and Owen’s immediately leaning forwards. “You can’t tell anyone, remember? Nobody else knows.”  
Owen nods, urging him on. “Go on, I want the gossip.”

George picks at a loose thread on his hoodie. His voice is soft when he speaks again. “I told Beaver I was going to meet some mates who were coming across from Oldham, so he dropped me in town. There’s a gay pub near the centre, so I walked there and just sat in the corner.”

This isn’t quite turning out to be the scandalous story Owen was hoping for, but it’s still more interesting than his love life.

“This guy came up to me – tall, blond, really fit – and we got chatting. Turns out he was in there for the same reasons. Bit awkward, wasn’t out, needed a push to get started, you know?”

In actual fact, Owen doesn’t know. Kissing girls has always been the expected thing for him to do, and so he’s done it. He’s good at following the rules.

“I did check first that he wasn’t too old,” George says, and Owen lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. “He was in the local sixth form, so nothing dodgy there. We – I don’t know, kissed a bit? It felt like it was more to get it over with, for both of us, than anything else.”

“But he was nice to you?” Owen asks, more brotherly now than gossipy. “You were safe?”

George rolls his eyes, cheeks flushed pink. “Mate, it was four in the afternoon in a pub. I told him I was visiting for the day from Wigan, and I didn’t tell him my surname. We didn’t swap phone numbers. And if I was going to catch something off him, I would have done by now. It was fine.”

“Okay,” Owen says, “okay. That’s good. Are you glad you did it?” He doesn’t like to think about regret – his first drunken fumble was with a random girl at one of Jamie’s house parties back in the days before things all got serious, and he’d wanted to purge the half-remembered touches off his skin for weeks after. He wants to protect George from that.

George shrugs, re-crosses his ankles. “I guess so? I haven’t lost sleep over it, and it’s nice to know I’ve got a chance with at least one person. Anyway, practice makes perfect.”

Owen laughs. That’s more like the George he knows, all this confusing sexuality stuff aside. “I think we’ll stick to practising rugby, not that kind of thing, hey, mate?”

“If that’s what you want,” George says, and Owen doesn’t even want to consider the implications of that.

“Oh,” he says, remembering, “Jinx wanted me to ask you to text him when you’re free, the next couple of weeks. I think he wants to meet up – probably with Elliot as well.”

George nods, pulling out his phone. “I mean, during the day, literally whenever because everyone’s out, but then my mum likes having me home for ‘family time’ in the evenings, y’know?”

Owen nods, but he doesn’t know, not really. Since he learned to drive, his parents don’t seem to have an opinion either way where he is, as long as he gets to training on time and doesn’t disrupt their orderly lives.

“Since when are you lot such good friends, anyway?” Owen asks. He’s curious – besides George and Elliot both playing the backs for England, there doesn’t seem to be much common ground between the three of them.

George shrugs. “They checked in on me, made sure I wasn’t lonely in camp when you were having your hissy fit at the start of the year. They’re just good lads, is all. We get along well.”

Owen’s phone buzzes at the same time as George’s. _Thanks mate!_ his text from Jamie reads. _Knew you’d pull through._ “You got one from Jamie as well?” he asks, showing his phone screen.

“Uh, yeah,” George says, typing quickly. More alerts start pinging on his phone. “Yep, that’s Elliot as well now.”

“Your group chat?” Owen says. He might have heard about it before, but that doesn’t stop him feeling left out.

“We can add you, if you want?” George says, looking up from his texting. “Wouldn’t be a problem.”

“No, it’s fine,” Owen says. He hates not feeling included, like he’s the only one of this little friendship group George has constructed not deemed important enough to be on the chat.

He’s nineteen years old, though. He needs to get a grip and get over himself. It’s a shitting group chat, for God’s sake – there are more important things in life.

After about five minutes of George furiously texting and Owen sat on his own bed like a miserable lemon, George puts his phone away. “I should probably head out,” he says, gesturing at the clock. “It’s getting late, and I know you have training in the morning.”

“Okay,” Owen says, standing up. “That’s – very considerate of you, thanks.” He’s almost got déjà vu, George slipping away in front of his very eyes, in his literal bedroom. It’s that that prompts him to blurt out, “Do you fancy doing something in a few weeks? We have a few days off around Christmas, and we could go into London or something?”

George bites his lip. “I’m really sorry, mate, but I’ve already arranged something with Jamie and Elliot. I’d love to, but – you know how it is.”

“Oh. Oh, right.” At least this time, you can’t fault him for trying, Owen thinks savagely. He’s just ten minutes too late.

They walk down the stairs in silence. Owen stares at the wall while George tugs his shoes on. “I guess I’ll see you around,” he says eventually. “If you’re free, that is.”

“Sure,” George says, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “I might be able to come to one of your games, so I’ll message you.”

“That would be cool.” Owen scrapes together the requisite amount of enthusiasm to convince George of his sincerity, then unlocks the front door. “See you, mate.”

“Bye, Owen,” George says, and steps out into the dark night.

*

It’s hard for Owen to act normal over the next couple of weeks, when he knows full well that George is just a few dozen metres away from him at home and yet is too busy to hang out like before.

He has a job and everything to keep him occupied, but every time he has a moment of downtime the resentment and the rejection come flooding back. He’s apparently good enough to be trusted with George’s deepest, darkest secret, but nothing else.

He doesn’t get the days out, or the group chats, or even the kicking sessions at the park. It honestly baffles him, what Elliot and Jamie have that he apparently doesn’t. He’s close at hand, for starters, not over in Welwyn Garden City or up in bloody Coventry.

_Although_ , a nagging voice in his head tells him, _they’re fun. You’re just a rugby obsessive, and not even for George’s kind of rugby anymore._

In his weaker moments, he does concede that the voice speaks some truth. Jamie can bring laughter to the locker room even after a loss, while he’s a semi-permanent glowering raincloud in the corner, unable to brush off a defeat with such ease or grace.

George doesn’t materialise at any of the Saracens matches – or if he does, nobody tells Owen about it. He’s seriously considering whether he should write him a Christmas card by mid-December. They haven’t texted in two weeks, and no offers to meet up have been made from either side.

Maybe they’re just growing up and growing apart, like his mum always warned. They’re different people with different careers in different places, with only a few years of overlap in Wigan and Harpenden tying them together. Maybe he should let George go, stop forcing the issue…

His phone buzzes on the desk next to a stack of Christmas cards. He snatches it up.

_have you seen the news???!!_ George has texted.

_No? What is it?_

His imagination’s running wild – Jonny Wilkinson’s broken his leg? The Queen’s died? There’s a blizzard about to hit Harpenden in the next five minutes?

_can I come ofer_

_*over, fuck I’m shaking_

_Of course._

He’s worried now. What is it that George is having such a reaction to it? He goes to a news site, scrolls through the headlines. He can’t see anything overly surprising or shocking, but then he might be looking at a different set of stories to George.

The doorbell goes and Owen rushes to open the door. It’s cold outside, and God knows what state George is in. “Come in, mate,” he says immediately, opening the door wider to let his friend inside.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, shucking off his boots. “God, I – can we go upstairs?”

“Sure,” Owen says, laying a steadying hand on the small of George’s back for a second. “Whatever you need.”

He follows George up the stairs and to his room. George is visibly shaking, and it only adds to his nerves. If it were something really bad, he’d be crying, surely, or telling his mum, not running over the road to talk to Owen about it.

George takes his usual position against the headboard and covers his face with his hands. “Mate, what’s up?” Owen asks, rubbing at his shoulder. “You can talk to me – or show me the news, whatever’s easiest.”

George takes his phone out of his pocket, unlocks it, and hands it to Owen.

[ _British Lions rugby legend Gareth Thomas: 'It's ended my marriage and nearly driven me to suicide. Now it's time to tell the world the truth - I'm gay'_ ](https://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1237035/British-Lions-rugby-legend-Gareth-Thomas-Its-ended-marriage-nearly-driven-suicide-Now-time-tell-world-truth--Im-gay.html)

[ ](https://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1237035/British-Lions-rugby-legend-Gareth-Thomas-Its-ended-marriage-nearly-driven-suicide-Now-time-tell-world-truth--Im-gay.html)

[ _By Helen Weathers for the Daily Mail_ ](https://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1237035/British-Lions-rugby-legend-Gareth-Thomas-Its-ended-marriage-nearly-driven-suicide-Now-time-tell-world-truth--Im-gay.html)

[ _Updated: 09:32, 19 December 2009_ ](https://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1237035/British-Lions-rugby-legend-Gareth-Thomas-Its-ended-marriage-nearly-driven-suicide-Now-time-tell-world-truth--Im-gay.html)

Owen looks up at George. There are tears in his eyes.

“Holy shit, Georgie,” he breathes. “This is incredible.”

It’s nothing like the abstract thoughts he had after Nigel Owens came out – this time he knows someone it’s having an impact on, and he can see the evidence right in front of him.

“I know, right?” George says wetly, wiping his eyes. “Like – I never thought this would happen, and to have it be someone like him… I’m so happy, but so scared all at the same time.”

Owen sits down next to him, lets him curl into his side. “Why? Surely this is a good thing?”

George shrugs against him. “Well, yeah, but – I just know all the lads on the team are going to be talking about it, and the reaction won’t be all positive. It just makes me even more worried about ever coming out, knowing what their reactions are going to be.”

“And he’s – like the article said, he’s a legend. He has a hundred caps for Wales, and that helps protect him. I’m some teenager who’s played six games for Bradford. It’s not really on the same level,” George continues.

“You don’t have to have done all those things to come out, though,” Owen says, not really sure where he’s going with this. It’s not something that’s ever been on his radar before. “Everyone deserves to be happy and comfortable, and that includes coming out if you want to. Playing rugby shouldn’t stop that.”

He racks his brain for something else reassuring to say. “And, like, isn’t there that gay rugby club up in Manchester? The Spartans, or something like that? That’s proof that you don’t have to be straight to play rugby – they’re in a normal league and everything.”

He doesn’t mention that the only reason he knows about the team is his dad complaining about them over dinner, calling them a hundred foul-mouthed names. It won’t help George to know that, so he holds his tongue.

George pushes his head against Owen’s side before sitting up. “Thanks, mate. You know there’s nobody else I can talk to about this stuff, and I thought I was going to explode when I saw it.” He holds up a trembling hand. “See, I’m still shaking. It’s just – it’s a lot, good and bad.”

“But mainly good, right?” Owen asks. Even if their friendship has drifted lately, he wants to make sure George is okay – especially when he’s the only person in the world who can.

“Yeah,” George says, running his hands through his hair. “I’m glad he did it now – gives it time to settle before we have to go back for preseason.”

“When’s that?” He’s played and followed league for most of his life, but never been in a position to do a proper preseason for it.

“About a month? Mum’s still insisting on driving me up, even though Joe’s taking most of my stuff in his car.”

Owen pokes his knee. “I think it’s sweet that she cares so much. And you are still so young, after all.”

George growls and pushes him to the bed. “Mate. _I’m not that young_.”

Owen grins, knowing he’s got a rise out of George – and, more importantly, a distraction. “But you are, ickle Georgie. Such a little baby, so small-” He’s cut off by George smushing his face into the pillow, and then they’re wrestling, like some kind of bastardised drill from back in the day.

Owen eventually comes out on top, straddling George’s waist and pinning his shoulders to the mattress. “See?” he says triumphantly, panting slightly. “You’re so tiny, I beat you into submission in about thirty seconds.”

“It was a minute, please,” George huffs, though he’s grinning, chest rising and falling. “Anyway, you can get off now, you’ve proved your point.” George scraps at Owen’s arms, trying to dislodge them. He takes a minute to enjoy the feeling of his little friend unsuccessfully pawing at his biceps before rolling off him.

They’re lying next to each other, still catching their breaths (it takes an embarrassingly long time for two allegedly professional athletes), when there’s a knock at the door and the handle starts creaking open.

Owen looks at George, panicked. The way they’re sprawled next to each other, breathing heavily and with messy hair – whoever it is can only draw one conclusion. If it’s his mum, he might be okay.

It’s not.

“Owen?” his dad says, voice hard. “What the fuck are you two doing?”

“We were just-” he whispers, fighting for breath for a different reason.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Andy snaps. “You shouldn’t even be on the same bed together, let alone doing anything like that.”

His face is filled with disgust, and Owen wants to shrink away and hide. He has to be strong for George, though. It’s his dad, his mistake, and his responsibility.

“We weren’t,” he says, sitting up and ignoring the acid fear in his stomach. “It’s not what you think, I promise.”

Andy raises his eyebrows. “Pull the other one, Owen. I wasn’t born yesterday.” He points an accusatory finger at George. “You – get out. I don’t want you near my son, or under my roof. It’s unnatural.”

Nobody moves for a long, horrible, drawn-out second. It’s like a standoff in a Western, Owen thinks, his brain taking him somewhere, anywhere else. Who’s going to break first?

George gets up, muttering an apology, and hurries out the door. Owen hears him go down the stairs, and then the front door opens and closes. He’s alone now, and he doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse.

His dad’s still at the door when he musters the courage to raise his eyes from the carpet. “Owen,” his dad says. “I will not tolerate this kind of behaviour in my house. I thought I didn’t need to make it clear, but apparently I do.”

Owen wants to cry, but he won’t give his dad the satisfaction. The worst part is, he’s not even gay. What’s George got to be feeling, already all mixed up by the Gareth Thomas news?

“If this affects your performance in training or during matches, I won’t hesitate to tell Mark, alright? He needs to know if it’s stopping you playing well.”

_No, it’s not alright_ , Owen screams inside his head. _It’s all wrong, and it’s fucked up. I’m straight, for crying out loud._

Externally, he nods meekly. Best case scenario is his dad thinks it’s just a phase that he’s managed to stamp out and they all move on. Worst case – he should probably be contacting his agent to find a new team.

“Glad we sorted that one out,” Andy says with a horrible smile. “Now, go to sleep. You’ll be over this by the morning.” The _or else_ is unspoken, but Owen hears it loud and clear.

The door slams shut, and he presses his face into the pillow. _He’s not even gay. Not gay, not bi – completely, 100% straight_. It’s not fair. He hates everything.

When he’s finished calling his dad every name under the sun, he gets up and goes to brush his teeth. He might as well get an early night and hope his dad’s forgotten by morning. He hopes his mum’s defending him, but it’s hardly likely. His dad’s a force to be reckoned with, let alone when he’s in a bad mood.

Once he’s finished in the bathroom and changed into his pyjamas, his phone buzzes. It had been shoved under the covers during their play-fight, and he’s lucky his dad didn’t see it and confiscate it. He’s nineteen and a legal adult, but that doesn’t mean much to his dad.

_I’m so sorry_ , George has texted. _are you okay?_

The nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach is still there, but he doesn’t want to throw up anymore, so, on balance-

_Don’t worry about me, I’m fine._

_I’m incredibly sorry he said that stuff to you though. He’s a dick and it doesn’t mean anything._

_You’re amazing and you shouldn’t listen to him._

_thanks mate <3 _George sends back, and Owen instinctively deletes it. He can’t risk his dad seeing it. He should probably delete their entire conversation as well, not to provoke him.

_can I tell Jamie what happened? obviously we shouldn’t see each other for a few weeks, but you need someone to talk about it with_

Owen worries at his lip. He doesn’t need to talk about this as much as he might need backup – or a place to stay, Christ.

_Ok. I’ll be able to stick it out until training at least, but I’ll talk to him then._

_not sure if it counts as homophobic if you’re actually straight, but it was still pretty horrendous_

_I’m sure Jamie will be able to help x_

Owen deletes that text too.

_Thanks. Going to bed now, hope you’re okay._

_back at you_

_night night_

He removes the entire conversation from his phone with a twinge of regret. Maybe it would be nice to have in the future, as something to look back on when they’re old and away from all this mess, but for now, his – and George’s – safety is paramount.

He hides his phone under his socks and climbs into bed. He doesn’t even feel safe in here now, threatened for an apparent crime he hadn’t committed. It’s ridiculous and horrible and his mind won’t settle.

After two hours of tossing and turning, he gets up and opens the window. The winter air on his face chills him, almost freezing his turbulent emotions and keeping them in stasis. He can see a light on in the window he knows to be George’s, and it makes him feel a bit better.

He’s not alone in this. He has George, and Jamie, and maybe Elliot too. It’s going to be okay – however long that takes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The photo George notices in Owen's hallway.](https://i.dailymail.co.uk/1s/2019/10/30/21/20398214-7632467-image-a-8_1572471971407.jpg)
> 
> This is now going to be updated twice weekly, at approximately 4:30pm on Fridays and 9am on Sundays - thanks to everyone who replied to reassure me about this!  
> I'd love to hear what you thought about this, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


	9. Chapter 9

He successfully avoids all unnecessary interactions with his dad for the next two days until it’s time for training, although his mum makes sure to come into his room and give him a kiss on the forehead each evening.

He’d like to think he could add her to the list of people to rely on, but he doesn’t want to be hasty. She’s just as dependent on his dad as he is.

Andy has to drop his car off in town for its MOT, meaning they travel in separately to training on the Tuesday, and Owen counts his lucky stars. He’s not going to denounce George or say anything insulting about gay people, even if he will sit quiet and let his dad rant. It’s for his own safety, he tells himself.

He’s barely parked his car when Jamie’s waiting for him to get out, hopping from foot to foot in the cold. “Shit, Faz,” he says as soon as the car door’s open, pulling him in for a hug, “I’ve been so worried.”

Owen sinks into the hug, burying his face in Jamie’s shoulder. He hadn’t realised until that moment just how tense he’d been, how on edge and hyper-aware of everything his dad was doing. His friend strokes his hair and lets him be for a while.

“Do you want to talk about it now, or later?” Jamie asks, still holding onto his arm when they pull apart. His tone makes it clear that there’s no arguing about this.

“At lunch?” he suggests, fiddling with the strap of his kit bag. “Don’t want to distract from training.”

“You’re not a distraction, silly,” Jamie says, spinning him round and pushing him in the direction of the clubhouse. “I’m more distracted because I’m worried about you than anything else.”

There’s another pang of guilt in his stomach. He’s making his friends worried about him, and he’s not even gay, so it shouldn’t matter. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

Jamie clucks at him. “None of that, mate. We all know who should be sorry here, and it’s not you or Fordy. Now, come on, we need to get changed.” He smiles gratefully at his friend. Jamie’s brisk, no-nonsense manner – reminiscent as it may be of his primary school teachers – is just what he needs right now. It’s reassuring and steadying; all the things he’s been missing, holed up alone in his room for days.

Training goes fine, all things considered. He falters for a moment when he sees his dad take his place on the touchline, earning him a bollocking from Wiggy, whose pass nearly smacks him in the face. He pulls himself together and forces himself to ignore it. A rugby pitch is no place for emotions, especially ones like fear.

When the session’s finished, Jamie pounces on him after his shower and drags him into an empty room. It’s tiny, empty, and most importantly – “It locks from the inside, and I’ve got the key,” Jamie says proudly, dangling the key in front of Owen’s face and dropping it on the table between them. “Just so nobody can get in – you’re free to leave whenever, obviously.”

Owen’s throat is tight. It’s such a considerate thing, something he would never have thought of, or even known how to do. “Don’t ask,” Jamie laughs, seeing the question forming on his lips. “There was a dare, back in the academy days before you joined. Most of the other lads will have forgotten all about it, but I remember useful things like that.”

Then his face grows serious, and the mirth fades. “Fordy told me what happened,” Jamie says, leaning back in his chair, “or, at least, some of it. He was pretty upset.”

“Understandable,” Owen murmurs. “It was awful for me, and even worse for him.”

“Why do you say that?” Jamie asks, cocking his head to one side. “You’re the one who has to stay in that house.”

Owen folds his arms, then unfolds them and sits on his hands. “I’m not gay,” he says to the table, “so he wasn’t really talking about me. All the stuff about it being disgusting and unnatural, that’s got to hurt George more than me.”

Jamie sighs. “I don’t want to be too blunt, but – mate. You had to sit there and listen to your dad call you all kinds of shitty things, and threaten to out you to the other coaches. Even if you’re not gay, that’s rough.” He reaches forward, raps Owen on the knee. “Look, we just want to know if you’re okay, and help you if you’re not.”

“Who’s we?” he croaks. Stupid Jamie, making him feel things.

“Me and Fordy,” Jamie says calmly.

Owen’s head snaps up. “Hang on, you know about him being gay too?”

Jamie shrugs, oddly detached. “He texted me after you’d okayed him telling me about it, and then we had a chat. He started crying, and I could barely hear what he was saying. It was pretty rough. But yeah, he told me – and El on the group chat afterwards. We’ve all got to look after each other, you know?”

The guilt is back in full force. “Are you not, like, fucked up about all this too?” he asks, watching Jamie’s face carefully. “It’s not great.”

Jamie shrugs again. His gaze doesn’t waver. “I’ve had worse, mate. And no, I’m not going to tell you. This is supposed to be helping you talk about what happened at the weekend, not me unloading about stuff that’s been going on for ages.”

“Anyway,” Jamie forces a smile, “you’re welcome to stay at mine. Unless your dad has anything against me as well?”

Owen snorts. “Nah, mate, he loves you. He’d probably switch us if you watched league.” Jamie’s mouth tightens, and Owen realises he’s being rude. “But seriously, that’s really helpful. I’ll text you if I do want to get out for a few nights.”

“Good lad,” Jamie says, grabbing the keys off the table and standing up. “Ready for lunch now?” Owen nods with a grin. They’ve been in this glorified cupboard for a while now, and the morning’s session was tough enough without the emotional turmoil following it.

*

He takes Jamie up on his offer for a place to stay a few times, just a night every couple of weeks until the incident feels like it’s blown over. By the third time he sleeps at Jamie’s, it’s mid-January and almost time for George to be going back up north for his preseason.

Owen hasn’t seen George since that evening, almost a month ago. They’ve texted a few times, but it’s always more of a checking in, _hope you’re still okay_ message than arranging to meet up. Neither of them dare to cross Andy Farrell and the consequences he could unleash.

So Owen’s staying at Jamie’s house on a Tuesday night, ready for a standard evening of watching a film with Elliot on Skype or playing FIFA or just shooting the shit, when Jamie turns to him and says, “Would you be okay if Fordy came over?”

His immediate reaction is _oh fuck no_ , but then he takes a second to think about it. George is going to be hundreds of miles away in a matter of days, so whatever happens after this can’t affect him too much. It’s the last chance they’ll have in months to hang out without travelling half the length of the country first.

“Fine by me,” he says, ignoring the twist in his stomach. It is, really. He can’t wait to see George and to make sure he’s actually doing alright and to apologise. He can’t stop thinking about his dad, at the same time.

“He’ll be over in fifteen minutes,” Jamie says, standing up and flicking on the lights. “Do you want anything to eat, or a drink?”

“Just water’s good, thanks,” he says, grateful for Jamie’s considerateness as he leaves the room and Owen to freak out in private.

When he thinks about that last evening, a strange feeling of unfinished business coalesces in his mind. There isn’t much to think about from his side; he knows his dad is a prick, and he’s not gay so the insults don’t affect him. He’s established that he’s angry on George’s behalf, but then why does he still feel like there’s something he hasn’t quite processed, hasn’t addressed yet?

It’s a lingering stressor, tugging at the inside of his brain, and he doesn’t know how to get rid of it.

“How’s he getting here?” Owen asks, taking the glass from Jamie with a smile. It’s almost dark outside, and George is too young to drive (among a multitude of other things).

“Cycling,” Jamie says, sitting down and propping his feet up on the stool. “Before you ask – he’s perfectly safe. His mum’s got him lit up like a Christmas tree.”

They sit in silence, Owen rolling his glass between his hands, until someone knocks at the door. “That’ll be him,” Jamie says, getting up to answer it. Owen glances into the hall. Some bright lights are definitely shining through the window, so they’re either being visited by aliens or Jamie was telling the truth.

“Evening, mate,” Jamie says. “Leave your bike in the hall – yeah, there’s fine. Cup of tea?” George presumably agrees, because the sounds of Jamie clinking mugs together and boiling the kettle come floating through to the living room.

“Owen,” he hears George say, and he’s on his feet without knowing it.

“George,” he says, pulling him into a tight hug. He’s cold from being outside, but Owen doesn’t care. “Fuck, mate, I missed you.”

George pulls them both down to sit on the sofa. Their legs are pressed together, and Owen can’t help but notice the redness of George’s cheeks. “How’re you doing?” George asks. “Don’t bullshit me, please. I know you’re not fine.”

More tea-making noises emanate from the kitchen – the fridge door opens and closes, a spoon tapping against the rim of a mug. “As good as you could expect,” he says, shrugging. He doesn’t want to talk about it, not really. He’s over it – or he’s internalised it, which is the next best thing.

George looks sad. “If you say so,” he says softly. “I just – I’d come out if it would help you, or protect you, whatever, but I don’t think it would.”

Owen leans forward and shakes his shoulder a little. “Mate, I’d never ask that of you. It’s your thing – and you’re right, it wouldn’t help anyway.”

Jamie comes in with a mug of tea and some biscuits on a plate, and Owen jerks back reflexively. “Faz,” Jamie says, “you don’t have to do that here, okay? We’re never going to judge you.” George is nodding earnestly too, and Owen hates the pity in their eyes. It is what it is, and he’s dealing with it as best he can.

Jamie hands the tea to George and wiggles the plate between them. “Come on,” he coaxes, “just one little biccy. Fordy, you’ve been cycling, and Faz, you look like – I don’t know, like a miserable sod. Go on, have one.”

George takes one without complaint, and Owen gives in after some more encouragement from Jamie. He doesn’t know why he bothered resisting – Jamie always gets his way in the end.

“Now,” he says, crunching on his own biscuit, “what do you two want to do? Chez George has films, games – board and computer – or the technology required to get Elliot on Skype for a chat. Any of those float your boat?”

Owen shrugs. He’s not fussed – being out of his house and with George is enough for him. “Talk to El? It’s the last time we’ll all mostly be in the same place for a while.”

Jamie claps his hands together. “That can be arranged, Fordy. Just give me a minute.”

While Jamie’s tapping away on his laptop, Owen feels his eyelids sliding shut. He’s always more relaxed at Jamie’s, which somehow ends up manifesting itself as him falling asleep within an hour of arriving and waking up to Jamie’s hangdog face at midnight.

The Skype dial tone fills the room, laptop abandoned on the sofa while Jamie drags a table across to in front of where they’re sat. “We’ve got to make him feel included,” Jamie explains to Owen’s raised eyebrows. “Would be mean otherwise.”

Elliot picks up after a couple of rings. “Hey, Jamie,” he says softly, then perks up as he sees the other two on the sofa next to him. “Fordy _and_ Faz, we are lucky today! Ayup, ducks.”

“Evening, Elliot,” George says in a put-upon tone. “How’s life up in the Midlands?”

Elliot goes off on some tangent about a prank he pulled on Christian, and Owen pretends to listen while he’s hyper-focused on the way George keeps inching slightly closer to him. By the time Elliot’s finished his story, George is basically leaning on his shoulder, sides pressed together.

He’s warm and he can’t bring himself to pay attention to the thoughts demanding to know what his dad would think. They don’t matter for the moment.

“Tell them about what Charlie did after that,” Jamie urges, and Owen briefly wonders how it is that these events happened only a few hours ago and yet he’s already heard all of them to the point of knowing which bits are the funny parts. He yawns again and decides that he doesn’t care.

“What’re you thinking about?” George asks quietly, nudging him. Elliot and Jamie are doing that thing again where they apparently communicate meaning through half-sentences, facial expressions, and spluttered laughter. It’s nice to see them so happy, but not very interesting after a while.

“Just – I don’t know,” he sighs. “How I feel more at home here than in my actual house.”

George pats his knee and leaves his hand there afterwards. “It’s like the Homebase ads, mate – make a house a home. They’re not necessarily the same thing.”

“Yeah,” Owen says. Jamie’s nearly crying with laughter now, and it’s keeping him nicely distracted from their conversation. “And sometimes a family is two Saracens, a gay league player, and a guy Skyping from Coventry, right?”

“It can be if you want it to be,” George says softly. “Biological relationships don’t have to mean anything.”

They both know who he’s talking about, and Owen rubs at his eyes. “Kind of difficult when I’m living in his house and he’s one of my coaches, no?”

“Just say you want to move out, then,” George suggests. “It doesn’t have to be complicated. He’s going to have to coach somewhere else at some point, and if he tries anything while you’re at the club you can say it’s workplace harassment.”

“You’ve been thinking about this,” Owen realises, looking at his friend.

George shrugs. “I want to make sure you’re okay,” he says simply. “This sort of thing is never fair, and it doesn’t matter if you actually are gay or not.”

Owen hugs him tightly and, of course, that’s the moment Jamie’s attention switches back to them. “Aww,” Jamie coos, and Elliot echoes him. “So sweet.”

“Shut up, mate,” he answers, but there’s no heat behind the words. It’s probably a nicer reaction than he’d get anywhere else, after all.

“Should we leave them to it?” Elliot asks, teasing, and Owen rolls his eyes.

“I’m still straight,” he reminds them.

Jamie scoffs. “Well, you know what they say about friendship groups with a couple of gays in…”

“Jamie!” Elliot says sharply, and he immediately looks remorseful.

“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” he apologises to the computer screen.

“Fine, but you need to be more careful,” Elliot hisses.

Owen looks at George, nonplussed. He doesn’t see what was wrong with what Jamie said, but then he doesn’t really understand all the sensitivities around the topic. He knows Elliot has an older brother – maybe he’s gay? Or there’s another friend shared by those two and George that he doesn’t know about, so they’re trying not to make him feel left out.

George seems keen to gloss over the awkward moment too. “Hey, Elliot, did I tell you about the Christmas card that Beaver sent me?”

Elliot sniggers. “I still can’t believe you live with a guy called _Beaver_. Genuinely, what the fuck?”

“It’s better than him being called Bear, mate,” Jamie chimes in.

“Yeah, he’s not a bear,” George says. “Not enough hair for that.” They all collapse into giggles, and Owen has the isolating feeling of being the only one not getting the joke again. It’s a vaguely amusing joke, but not to the extent that Jamie’s about to fall off the sofa because of it.

“Anyway, he’s got a wife,” George concludes, and the other two nod soberly. Quite what that has to do with whether he looks like a bear or not, Owen doesn’t know.

The conversation turns back to rugby, which he’s glad about because he can at least contribute. Elliot has the U18 Six Nations coming up, while George has no international responsibilities expected for the next few years. Owen himself has technically aged out of U18s and hasn’t been contacted about the U20s. Jamie’s an outside chance for an injury callup for U20s, but nothing more than that.

Essentially, they’re all going to be carrying on with establishing themselves in their respective senior teams and watching Elliot continue their tradition of thrashing Scotland by at least sixty points a game. If there ever was a time when Owen would have wanted to be a year younger than he is, it’s now.

Saracens are looking on track for the final at the end of May, but he’d still trade a potential Premiership win for a month or so out of the house, even out of the country. Maybe George’s advice to start looking for a house isn’t too unreasonable – or he could just ask Jamie if he could bunk with him permanently.

Might be an issue when they get girlfriends, but he’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it.

Elliot hangs up a few minutes later, begging off on grounds of having his contact training session the next day. For someone who wasn’t actually present in the room, his departure leaves a gaping hole in the atmosphere; Jamie looks like a deflating balloon, slumped on the sofa after all his antics over Skype. Owen squeezes George a bit tighter – they’ll probably be the same in a couple of weeks.

“I might head out too,” George says with a glance at the clock. “Mum wanted me back by eleven.”

“That’s fair,” Jamie says, roused from his depression. “Text when you’re home, yeah?” He nods, taking his empty mug through to the kitchen. “Faz, mate, walk him out, will you? I’m knackered.”

Owen agrees, grateful for a final moment alone with George before months of nothing. He meets George in the hall, pulling on his jacket. “Sure you’re going to be alright?” he asks, flicking the light on top of his helmet.

“Yes, mum,” George snarks. “It’s fifteen minutes – I’ll be fine.”

“Talk soon, Fordy, yeah?” Jamie calls through from the living room.

“Always,” he shouts back, and zips up his coat. “Going to let me through, then?” he asks Owen, gesturing at the door.

Owen jumps to open it, flattening himself against the wall so George can get his bike past. “Keep in touch, mate,” he says softly as George busies himself turning his bike lights on.

(Jamie hadn’t been joking about him looking like a Christmas tree – there’s front lights, back lights, helmet lights, and a reflective sash to boot.)

“I will if you will,” George sing-songs, straddling the bike. “Anyway, I’m expecting a killer birthday present after what I got you.”

“Hmm, ulterior motives – I see your game.” Owen grins, half-lit by the light spilling out the hall behind him. “But yeah, absolutely. I’ll check if there’s any free weekends before the end of the season where we can all meet up, try and sort something out.”

“That would be nice,” George says softly. “See you soon, mate.”

“Bye, Georgie,” he replies. Then George is gone, a constellation of blinking lights weaving away in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you thought about this chapter, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


	10. Chapter 10

For whatever reasons, they don’t manage to keep in touch as frequently as they’d planned. Owen comes down with a cold the next week that the doctor diagnoses as that winter’s strain of the flu, so he’s off rugby and grumpy about it for a fortnight.

While he’s busy fuming at home, George is busy up in Yorkshire in his first league preseason. Bradford don’t even have a Twitter account, the inconvenient twits, so Owen’s reduced to stalking the team website to catch any glimpses of George. The few photos he has managed to find have shown him smiling and coated in mud, so he assumes he’s having a good time.

Once he’s back from his enforced break, chomping at the bit to get going, he tears into training with such ferocity that he ends up injuring his knee. He’s just dived into a ruck, scrapping for the ball with both hands, when someone comes in from the side and bulldozes him.

He’s left on his side, gasping for air and fighting his muscles to get up and keep going, working hard for the team like he’s always tried to. He gets up onto his elbows, one knee under him and about to shift his weight onto the other one, when he hears a crunch and he’s back on the floor where he started.

“Dave!” someone near him yells. “Dave, we need a physio for Faz!” He’s not the only one who heard his knee give out then. Good – he can’t be told off for being lazy now.

The physios are surrounding him in seconds, helping him to sit up and gently probing at his knee. In hushed voices, they come to the conclusion that he can walk off the pitch with their help – no way he’s being carried, fuck that – and he’s eased to his feet. He tests the knee, and almost crashes to the ground again. _Bloody fantastic._

He can cope with pain, played through it enough before. It’s when his body decides to give up for him, though, and he’s told in a solemn tone that he’s out for at least a month, that he’s properly angry. No rugby – what else is he meant to do? Physical therapy, sure, but that’s going to be in a couple of weeks at the earliest.

He punches the wall when the physios leave – probably telling his dad to take his home, if this situation wasn’t bad enough already. _Stupid knee, stupid ruck, stupid clear-out._ This was meant to be his season to really push for that backup position – Charlie’s not going to be around forever, and he fully intends to be waiting to take his shirt.

Now, he’s more likely to be waiting to be kicked back into the academy. He grunts at the pain in his reddened knuckles, then suddenly remembers what he’s going to be able to do. He’s going to be watching George fulfil his potential, his dreams in the league matches he watches every weekend. Fuck this shit, honestly.

He’s silent on the car journey home, and for the long days home alone after. The only thing he can bear to be grateful for is that his dad saw the hit. He can’t complain Owen wasn’t putting in the effort or being lazy. No, he sacrificed himself for the team – maybe in the wrong situation, but still. A* for effort.

He’s on crutches for the first week, hopping around the house like a mopey, miserable rabbit. It’s getting on for spring, his favourite time of year to play rugby, and he’s stuck inside, in a house he can’t even call home anymore.

Day after day, his fingers itch to text George and ask how he’s getting on. When he’s finally so fed up of his unwanted isolation that his frustration overrides his anxiety, he grabs his phone from the other end of the sofa and sends a message – the first in three weeks.

_How’s God’s own country treating you?_

It’s the middle of the day on a Thursday, so he’s not expecting a reply. It’s enough of a rush to just see the message sent, out there in the ether. _How the mighty have fallen_ , he thinks to himself. Maybe if he takes a nap – his fourth of the week – George might have replied by the time he wakes up. That, or his mum will tell him off for sleeping in the middle of the day again.

When a reply doesn’t arrive in the next five minutes, he pulls a blanket off the back of the sofa, tucks himself in, and closes his eyes. It’s like Christmas – if you go to sleep, the presents will be there when you wake up.

By some miracle, he wakes up to a still-empty house. His mum had gone out to do the shopping and then pick up his sisters from school, so he can’t have slept too long. He rolls over and picks up his phone from where it had fallen on the floor while he was sleeping.

_No new messages_ , the screen reads. He lets it drop back onto the carpet.

It’s not been that long, he reasons. If he were at training right now instead of lying on the sofa at home in a mood, he wouldn’t have replied either. That doesn’t stop it sucking, though.

Easily 95% of his current friends and acquaintances are involved in rugby in some form or another, and the other 5% have conventional 9-5 jobs or degrees to be getting on with. He can’t think of anyone who’d be free to come and entertain him for the next couple of hours apart from his mum, and that’s a whole new level of sad.

After another ten minutes with no response, he decides to have something to eat. It’ll alleviate the boredom if nothing else, and prove to his mum that he has been doing things (okay, one thing) while she was out.

He hobbles to the kitchen, leaning on tables and walls as he goes for support, and gets some bread out. Toast is fairly inoffensive to his diet plan, and the trainers are going to be expecting him to put on weight over his recovery anyway – might as well take advantage of it while he can.

When his two slices of toast have been slathered to his satisfaction with Nutella – joys of being home alone – he shuffles back to his nest on the sofa. He checks his phone – _no new messages_. It’s three in the afternoon; he’s got at least half an hour to wait before George replies, at the earliest.

He chews on his snack in a lacklustre fashion. It’s absolutely pissing it down outside, so for once he’s not actually too bitter about not being out there with the team. After his flu, the team doctors were very keen to impart the importance of staying out of the cold to him, so the knee injury might be a blessing in disguise.

(If it is, it’s incredibly well-disguised, he thinks grumpily.)

He must fall asleep again, because he wakes up to his mum telling him off for letting his toast fall Nutella-down on the carpet. He apologises, offers to clean it up, but she huffs and walks off. It’s not like he can get on his hands and knees to scrub the carpet, but she could have appreciated his willingness a bit more.

He picks up his phone and hoists his bad leg onto the sofa so she has more space to kneel down in. The phone blinks at him, _two new messages_ , and his heart jumps.

_not too bad – ready for the season to start now tbh_

_how’s the knee? :(_

Owen hugs the phone to his chest. It’s so little to be so excited about, but he’s been by himself for a couple of weeks now and it’s lonely.

_I’m ready to watch you!! Better do good to distract me from the boredom >:-(_

He spends a good thirty seconds debating whether to include a nose on the frowny face. God, his life is sad.

_how much longer do they think?_

_and we’ll try_

_Huddersfield and St Helen’s first though, not sure how much we can do against them_

_Two or three weeks maybe, got an assessment on Friday._

_First game against Saints though – you excited?_

He knows St Helen’s are George’s favourite team; they hold a similar status in the Ford household as Wigan does for the Farrells, albeit with less direct family involvement.

_aaah don’t get me started!! probs a bit childish to ask for a shirt swap second game of the season though…_

_Just have to wait until you’re playing for them, then ;)_

_don’t joke, I would actually die_

_Good way to go though??!_

_the best, mate_

_gtg, need a shower – good luck for Friday <3_

_Thanks! Have a nice shower I guess_

His finger hovers over the delete button. It’s almost become second nature to erase any messages with vaguely flirtatious undertones – or even just hearts or kisses attached, he knows _some people_ won’t draw any such distinctions.

This time, though – Owen finds himself wanting to preserve the exchange. There’s nothing to it, just some easy banter and a caring friendship. Even if _some people_ are going to read into it things that aren’t there like the most ambitious English teachers – and he’s already got a track record for doing that – it can explained away quickly enough.

And really, should he have to be monitoring his conversations with his friends to ensure that they can be justified to someone who shouldn’t be a concern in the first place? Maybe if he were twelve years old and talking to strangers online he would be more willing to accept such an intervention, but he’s not. He’s nineteen, texting his real-life friends who he’s known for years.

Policing those interactions is – it’s bullshit, he decides, and locks his phone. He’s an adult, and he’s not doing anything wrong.

The glow of that tiny moment of defiance sustains him through the next three weeks of rehab until he’s passed as fit to play. Then it’s all hands on deck, individual desire suspended in place of the will of the team. He’s making up for lost time now.

*

If he was going to compare the last few months of the 2009-10 season, Owen would describe it like falling downhill, rolling and rolling and picking up speed and a few knocks here and there, before being brought to a juddering halt at the end.

When he gets back to playing, it’s a whirlwind of matches and training. Europe’s no longer a consideration, Sarries not winning their pool and not having enough points to scrape through to the quarterfinals. Even so, it’s non-stop.

His first match in months is an agonising one-point loss to Gloucester, and then wins against Sale and Quins and Northampton (another one-point game, but Saracens come out on top this time) and Leicester leave them third in the table at the end of the regular season.

Owen’s on the bench for the semi against Northampton, the coaches not trusting his knee or his age. He’s probably 90% fine with it – Glen’s a good guy, and retiring at the end of the season. He nails all of his penalties and conversions, which helps. He can’t be annoyed about that.

He’s not even wearing the 22 shirt for the final, Justin chosen ahead of him (90% okay with it, again, the man was an All Black) and this time it’s so much worse. Twickenham is filled to the brim with eighty thousand fans baying for blood, and he’s helpless on the side lines for all of it. Glen misses two kicks, but the five lost points wouldn’t have made up the deficit to Tigers.

He’s forced to watch the Tigers players running around and yelling and hugging each other, celebrating their third title in four years, while his team – he didn’t even contribute, so can he lay claim to them? – gather round their coaches and mourn what could have been.

Brendan says a few words and Steve – Steve Borthwick, a guy Owen considers it a privilege to be smashed to pieces by in training every week, an England player and the best captain he’s ever had – can’t get through his speech without sniffing and wiping at his eyes every few seconds.

The sharks are still circling, TV cameras keen to get the best shot of the Saracens disappointment, and Owen wants to tell him to snap out of it. He may be nineteen years old, but he’s had it drilled into him for years not to show weakness. Men don’t cry, after all.

Mercifully, the drive home from Twickenham is short. Andy’s still tied up with the rest of the coaching staff, dissecting their performance to be ready for the next season. Personally, Owen’s ready to faceplant on his bed and not move for the next three weeks before it’s time to go to South Africa with the U20s.

His mum knocks on his bedroom door. “Owen, love, do you want anything to eat?” she asks.  
He groans, rolls over onto his front. “You can come in.”

She cracks the door open and steps inside, perching on the end of his desk. “How are you doing? Tight game.”

He shrugs, not bothering to stop staring at the ceiling. “Mmm. Would have been better if I actually did anything.”

If he had played, he could justify lying in bed all evening and all day tomorrow. As it is, Andy will probably want him out kicking. As much as he loves rugby, he’s dreading it.

“It’s a team sport,” she says gently, coming closer and rubbing his shoulder. “Next year will be better. Champions Cup for starters, yeah?”

He nods reluctantly. Sometimes he wants to get off the speeding train that is the rugby calendar, but with this family – not a chance.

“Anyway, the reason I came up here,” she says, taking his phone out of her pocket. “You left this in your kit bag when I was taking the stuff out to wash, and it keeps going off.”

“Oh, right,” he says. He reaches out and takes it.

_Thirty new messages_ , the screen blinks at him.

“Thanks,” he smiles, and his mum takes it as the dismissal it is, leaving the room and closing the door behind her.

He flicks open the messenger app. Jamie and Elliot have texted, and some mates from the Saracens and Leicester academies. They’re all fairly standard _sorry about the loss, sorry you couldn’t do anything about it_ messages that he’s received a hundred times.

The last one he gets to, though-

_tough one,_ George has written. _you looked very mysterious and brooding, if that’s any help – Beaver’s wife was loving it._

It startles a laugh out of him, both the content of the message and its sudden appearance. He scrolls up to their last conversation, guilt growing in the pit of his stomach. They last talked in April, George congratulating him on his first game back and Owen promising to watch the Bradford match when he had time.

It’s the end of May now. He rubs at his eyes. How did he let this – George – slide for so long. Sure, he was busy, and Andy was hassling him more than he was leaving him alone, but it hadn’t been _that_ overwhelming.

He remembers watching all of George’s games – he’s planning to watch the one tomorrow, ideally drowning his sorrows in a Bradford victory – but he must have never got to the point of texting him about them.

_Long time no see_ , he answers eventually. _Sorry, my fault entirely._

_But yeah._

_Thanks._

_Not sure Beaver’s wife is exactly who I’m going for, but appreciate it anyway._

He beats himself up about it for exactly seven minutes – the time it takes for George to respond.

_not a problem! she got very excited when I said I knew you, though obvs you’re wayy too young for her_

_Beaver wants to know if you’re dating anyone to stop her trying to be a cougar_

Owen grins, although there’s a little curl of discomfort in his stomach.

_Not right now._

_There is this one girl though…_

He doesn’t know if you can describe what he’s got going with her as dating, or leading to a relationship, but it’s not nothing. She slides into his DMs occasionally, they go for drinks, he makes sure to be home nice and early for training. Andy is thrilled, naturally.

_don’t be a tease – what’s she like?_

_Brown hair, shorter than me, quite pretty. Studying in London._

_is she on your insta?_

Owen snorts. His Instagram is even more neglected than his love life, and he usually only posts when his sponsors prod him to do so.

_No, don’t think it’s that serious._

_shame_

_Anything on your end? Seen pub guy again?_ Owen asks, just to get George off his back about his non-relationship. He doesn’t know how they’ve got here from talking about the final, but it is nice to be chatting again. Not the same as before, but nice enough.

_Liam? nah_

Owen relaxes, but then another flurry of texts appears on his screen.

_if we are being honest, though – there has been one guy_

_a few times_

_in a toilet_

_if you catch my drift ;)_

He doesn’t know how to respond to that. George is seventeen, so everything’s fine in that respect. It’s just – a couple of months ago he was all bashful about just kissing a guy, and now he’s freely admitting to doing whatever it is that two guys get up to in a toilet cubicle.

George isn’t his little brother, no matter what he might think, and he has no right to judge him for it.

Still, though…

What if Beaver were to find out, or someone else on the team? What if George caught something, doing – he’s not homophobic, but he really doesn’t want any of those particular half-realised images in his head.

_sorry if that was a bit far_ , George adds. _not many people know, so I don’t get to talk about it much_

_It’s fine._

_But – ‘not many’? Who else?_

_(If that’s okay to ask.)_

_told Jamie and Elliot a while back_

_just before my birthday, I think_

_they were completely fine with it (thank God!!)_

_That’s good, happy for you :)_ Owen manages. He is, honestly. All these things that he thought were between him and George are coming out into the open, little by little, and that can only be good for George.

He doesn’t feel let down by it. Not at all.

He doesn’t deserve that, anyway, not after he blanked his friend for months. George needs people who can support him and be there for him, and Owen has been neither of those things.

_Excited to watch your game tomorrow_ , he texts, when nothing seems forthcoming from George.

_don’t get your hopes up_

_Hull are going to squish us like tiny annoying bugs_

_They will with an attitude like that_ , Owen’s inner Andy replies.

_FC or KR?_ He really should know this, given he’s pencilled the game into his mental calendar, but anything to help to conversation along.

_KR_

_not that it makes much of a difference :/_

_Obviously it’ll be my support making the difference, mate._

_of course_

_beaver wants tactics talk now so gtg_

_good to text though, missed you <3_

_Me too. I’m free last two weeks of July, we should work out when to meet up._

_for sure!!!!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you thought about this, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com). Stay safe and have a good week!


	11. Chapter 11

Owen doesn’t know why he’s surprised when he realises, three weeks into preseason, that they never sorted a date to meet up, and now it’s too late.

To compound his misery, the club decide to tell him that they’re loaning him out to Bedford – _fucking Bedford, Jesus Christ_ – a few hours later. It’s for his own good, they tell him kindly. He’s almost twenty and he’s not going to get the game time he needs to develop at Saracens.

Instead, he’s being farmed out to Bedford Blues, to the _Championship_ , so he can play actual matches. Warming the bench for Charlie isn’t enough anymore, apparently, so he’s out.

Andy’s pissed when Owen tells him, stuttering and hiding his shaking hands behind his back. It’s not his choice, and he’s tried so hard during preseason.

“It’s a bit far for commuting, isn’t it?” Andy asks after a minute of stony silence. “They giving you anywhere to live?” Owen wants to protest that thirty-five miles isn’t actually that bad, but he takes the hint. If he were still with Saracens, he’d jump at the chance to move in with Jamie, but apparently he’s required to go further afield.

With a meek nod, he leaves the room. Half an hour and a desperate phone call with his new captain later, his housing situation is sorted. Apparently Kruiser is going to Bedford for a while as well – why nobody thought to tell him that at Saracens, he doesn’t know – and his parents are happy to have both of them.

It helps that they live halfway between St Albans and Bedford, and that he and Kruiser are functional adults. Pritch, in his reassuring Australian accent, tells him in no uncertain terms that he’s going to offer to cook during the week, and help out as much as possible.

Owen agrees without argument – he knows how to deal with older guys in positions of authority. His captain sounds satisfied, and that’s that.

He moves out three days later.

His mum is holding back tears as he hugs her goodbye, and his sisters seem upset too. Andy gives him a stern look. “I’m expecting big things, Owen. You’re too good for that league.”

“Yes,” he murmurs, unable to bring himself to tack on the expected _dad_ at the end. If there’s one thing he’s learned from George, it’s choosing who your family are.

Then he gets in the car and drives away. It’s strangely anticlimactic, for all the hours he’s spent imagining how it would happen. It takes twenty minutes to get to Kruiser’s house, meet his parents properly, and be sat down at the table for tea.

They’re both parachuted in for the first match of the season, right at the end of August. A vindictive thrill rips through Owen’s body at the final whistle, seeing the scoreboard confirm that Bedford thrashed Plymouth 51-3. It’s what he needed, after the last fortnight, and he can see the same relief on Kruiser’s face as they crash together in a hug.

“Thank fuck for that,” Kruiser grins, ruffling his hair.

“I know, right?” Owen bumps against his side happily. “I was shitting myself we were going to look like kids out here.”

“Never, Faz,” Kruiser says. Owen doesn’t know if he’s seen his friend smile this much, ever. “My parents have probably made us a cake and everything.”

“Really?” he asks, frowning. It’s only the first game of the season. There are going to be stiffer tests ahead; they can’t celebrate too much.

“Yeah, they always do,” Kruiser says, ignoring Owen’s confusion. “It’s nice to get off to a good start, and they know that.” Owen shrugs. If he’s not going to be berated for missing those two kicks at the end, he’s happy.

Life in the Kruis household chafes at him, for some reason. Kruiser’s parents are perfectly nice, and impeccable hosts. On the surface, there’s nothing wrong. Deeper down, though, something’s playing on his mind.

There’s no edge to it, he decides after a few weeks of pleasantries. There’s no bite, no undercurrent of tension like in Andy Farrell’s domain. Kruiser leaves his muddy boots on the cream carpet in the hall, and everyone laughs about it before he cleans it off good-humouredly.

Owen would never even _dare_ to do such a thing at home – no, in his previous house. Maybe he would’ve tried something, back in the Wigan days, and then been told to snap out of it and respect his mother’s work around the house.

It means he’s happy living away from his family for the first time, accepted into the easy ebb and flow of the Kruis family like another wave caressing the sand. He’s happy, and that lets him put all his focus into rugby, not worrying about sneaking out of his room to go to the toilet too late at night.

(The attention Saracens are paying to his performance still hovers in the back of his mind, as it should. It doesn’t eat away at him, though. For perhaps the first time, he knows that if he tries hard enough, the results will come, and so will the rewards.)

Christmas arrives, and with it the startling realisation that he hasn’t been back to the house in Harpenden for almost four months. He’s seen his mum and sisters at a few matches, when they have time, but apart from that – it’s been a clean break, and he’s enjoying it.

His phone rings at dinner, a couple of hours after their last game before the holiday break. He checks it under the table, makes an apologetic face at Kruiser’s parents. “It’s my dad,” he says awkwardly, showing the caller ID. “Do you mind if I…?”

“Not at all,” Leo says genially. “Family comes first, after all.” He wants to correct them and explain what’s really going on here, but it’s not a quick conversation. The phone’s still ringing.

“Hi,” he says, leaving the kitchen and going up the stairs to his room.

“Owen,” Andy says. Neither of them sound enthused by the call, and Owen’s grateful for that. Andy can’t tell him off for not being happy when he’s not – it would be hypocritical.

(Not that that’s stopped him before.)

“Your mother wants you home for Christmas,” Andy says bluntly. No mention of _we_ , Owen notes; the older man clearly has no desire to see his disappointment of a son.

“When?” he asks. “Leo and Sarah were planning a meal on Wednesday.”

They’re not, but Andy would never bother checking. Christmas is on Friday – that means he’d have to spend a maximum of four days at ‘home’ before running back to the Kruises and the unexpected blessing that is Bedford for training on Monday.

“Fine. We’ll see you Thursday morning, then. Your grandparents are visiting on Sunday, but then you can go back for training.” No emotion colours Andy’s voice. It’s a business transaction, pure and simple – whatever it takes to keep Colleen happy.

“Right,” Owen says. “See you then.”

“Bye.” Andy hangs up, and Owen shakes off the crawling sensation creeping across his back. Four days, and one of them with an additional two people to fill the space between him and Andy.

If he’s lucky, he’ll be able to hole up with his sisters and avoid him for most of the visit. They might not be the target of their father in the same way he is, but he knows they’ve noticed. His mum might be wilfully oblivious, but Elleshia and Gracie do have some general awareness.

Taking a few deep breaths, he goes back downstairs to rejoin the meal. It’s a shock to be submerged in the warmth of the Kruises again after the iciness of the interaction with Andy, but Owen knows it’s what he needs. He’ll only spend the next three days chewing his fingernails off otherwise.

“Everything alright at home?” Leo asks when he comes back in. _There he goes again,_ Owen thinks, _assuming everyone lives like this_. He wants to yell, or cry, or both.

“Yeah,” he settles for instead. “They want me back on Thursday, and then I’ll be here again from Sunday evening – if that’s okay?”

“Of course,” Sarah says with a smile. “You don’t have to sound so miserable about it, though!” He knows she’s teasing, but sometimes it cuts too close to the bone.

Kruiser picks up on his twitchiness and distracts his parents by asking about some distant cousins Owen’s never heard of. He’s relieved to be able to get his head down and fill his mouth with mashed potato instead.

He doesn’t want to go back to Harpenden. He hadn’t even gone for his birthday, his mum and sisters meeting him in Milton Keynes to save him driving too far. Now, going back and having to stay for days…

He was never naïve enough to think he’d escaped completely, but amid the whirl of games and the gentle comfort of the Kruis household, he’d somehow forgotten that he’d have to go back for Christmas.

He’s bought presents for everyone, and pretty decent ones at that, so he won’t be reamed out for that. It’s just-

Well, it’s more than _just_. It’s more than a tiny, little thing. It’s huge, and looming in his mind like some kind of childhood monster. It’s practically a Dementor, the effect it’s having on him.

 _I’d rather stay with the Fords_ flashes across his mind, and he drops his fork onto his plate.

The Kruises all turn their heads to him at the clatter, and he winces. He knows it won’t be allowed, however generous Mike and Sally-Anne are feeling, but God, it would be so much better.

The only flaw in the plan – he hasn’t spoken to George in months. _Again._ He’s such a selfish twat, and Kruiser and his parents are still staring at him.

“Are you okay?” Kruiser asks hesitantly. Owen doesn’t know what to say to that. His eyes are probably wide like a rabbit in the headlights, and he can tell his lower lip is trembling.

“It’s fine if you’re not,” Sarah adds, and Owen has to choke back a sob-laugh. He’s never heard such a blatant lie in his life.

“I-” His voice cracks. He literally wants to die.

“You’re free to get down from the table if you want,” Leo says calmly.

Owen looks at all their faces, filled with concern. It’s so comfortable here, and they’re all so lovely, and he has to go away from all of this, back _home_ , wherever that might be, and- “Faz,” Kruiser says gently, and Owen breaks.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps out and flees the room. He’s up in his bedroom, head buried under the pillow, before he knows what he’s doing.

The pressure of the last few months – years, whatever – that’s been gradually building up like a growing thunderstorm, coupled with the crushing realisation that he’s forgone his promise to George yet again, _and_ having to go back to his parents’ house in a few days – it’s been threatening, and now the heavens have opened and he’s been drowned, smothered, crushed under the weight of it all.

It’s a while before he comes back to himself, heaving sobs dying away at long last. He’d like to think the wetness on his cheeks is like the damp grass after rain, a sign of growth and new life and a fresh start, but really it’s more a reminder of his ongoing misery.

None of the things affecting him are going away any time soon. He loves rugby and he’s contracted for another four years to Saracens, and he doesn’t have anything else to do with his life.

George, he can maybe fix, but the dread at the back of his mouth tells him that it’s only going to be temporary. They’re too far apart, in too many ways, for any friendship between them to survive.

(He brushes away the voice telling him that George, Elliot, and Jamie seem to be managing fine, despite playing for three different teams. He can’t think of anything that would link those three more strongly that he doesn’t have, or isn’t.)

Andy Farrell – a whole category of issues by himself. Owen hugs his pillow to his chest. It’s damp, but it’s something.

He can’t get out of having to see him. They work for the same club, and they nominally live in the same house. Really, it’s looking like a waiting game to see who cracks and leaves first. Owen knows there have been noises from England that Andy’s wanted for a coaching role, and he also knows that he would take it in a heartbeat.

The living together issue – well, Jamie had made an offer, and it sounded pretty open-ended at the time. Or, he could be a proper adult for the first time in his life and get his own place. He might need a few more years to build up the funds for that, but it’s a promising option.

He allows himself a moment to dream. He’d be in his own home, with a stable relationship and ideally a dog. He’d be the only Farrell at Saracens, the undisputed starting flyhalf, the top dog. He’d guide them to multiple titles, Premiership and European.

It’s a nice image, but one shattered all too easily by a knock at the door.

“Faz, mate,” Kruiser says. “Can I come in?” He coughs. “Or I can ask my mum to come up, if you want? We want to help.”

Owen dries his eyes and straightens his shirt. “You can come in,” he croaks.

“Oh, mate,” Kruiser says, holding his arms out for a hug. “You look awful.”

“Thanks,” Owen murmurs into his shoulder. That’s the good thing about forwards – lots of body for hugging.

Kruiser sits down beside him on the bed, not too close but not too far away. It reminds Owen of his mum, and his throat tightens. “What’s brought this on?” Kruiser asks, eyes sad. “One minute you were fine, and the next you looked like you’d seen a ghost.”

Owen sighs, shrugs. “It’s no big deal.” It’s not, really. He’s making a fuss about nothing. He knows, has done for a while, that the only way out is through.

“It doesn’t have to be a big deal to make you upset,” Kruiser says. “We’re friends, right? I’m supposed to help you.” Owen opens his mouth to object, and he cuts in. “And I want to help, so don’t start with that. Talk to me.” Owen wrinkles his nose. He doesn’t need help. He’s just being a wimp again, that’s all.

“Come on, Faz,” Kruiser pleads. “You’ve been crying. I want to help you feel better.” Owen bites his lip. If there’s ever been a good time to say something, it’s now.

He balls his hands into fists and shoves them under his thighs on the bed. “I don’t want to go home for Christmas,” he mumbles, hating how pathetic and childish it – he – sounds. “I don’t want to impose on you, but I don’t want to go home.”

Kruiser shuffles closer. “What’s wrong with home?”

Owen shrugs. “Just – it’s not…” He waves his hand around the room. “Not nice like this.”

“Your house smells funny, or something?”

He sighs. It’s too hard to explain, and there’s no way he’s blaming all his wussy problems on Andy. “It’s not as welcoming,” he says finally. “Your parents made a cake for the first game of the season. Mine would have asked me why I didn’t get all the conversions.”

“Still hung up on how good that cake was, huh?” Kruiser says, pushing gently at his shoulder. He looks like he understands more, when Owen sneaks a look out of the corner of his eye, and he’s glad. He doesn’t think he could spell out that when he talks about his parents being hostile, he really means his dad – Andy.

“I don’t think you can avoid going home for Christmas,” he continues, “not entirely. I could call you if you need to get out for a bit, if that would help.”

Owen smiles, bumps their sides together. “Thanks, mate. I’ll be okay, though. Just a bit overwhelmed at the moment, that’s all – I’ll be fine in the morning.”

Again with the _just_ and the _a bit_. He wants to break loose and tell Kruiser about how all-consuming it is sometimes, but he won’t. He’s stronger than that.

“If you’re sure,” his friend says doubtfully. “I’ll be downstairs if you need – we can play something if you want, or watch some league?”

Owen grins properly for the first time since Andy called him. “You really know the way to a northerner’s heart, mate.”

Kruiser grins back at him and leaves the room. Owen flops down on the bed, exhausted. All this crying and holding back what he really wants to say – it’s tough.

He’s oddly proud of himself, in spite of everything. He might have made himself look weak with the tears, but he didn’t let slip what was actually bothering him. The walls he’s constructed around his heart still stand, and that can only protect him.

*

Christmas is excruciating in almost every way imaginable. He’s only been away a few months, but he hadn’t realised the extent of the rose-tinted glasses with which he had been viewing his time at home.

Andy’s worse than he could have imagined.

His mum fusses over him at every opportunity, making sure he’s happy and comfortable and being fed enough. Owen luxuriates in the attention – that is, until Andy starts making comments.

“Are you really going to eat that?” he asks, after Owen’s just taken one of the mince pies his mum’s handing round. “That’s your third today.” He looks at his watch. It’s eight in the evening; it’s not like he’s got time to eat another ten, and it is Christmas Eve.

Still, he doesn’t want to invite more criticism, so he puts the pie back on the plate. His mum’s mouth is downturned, but he knows who he’d rather disappoint.

It’s a shame, really. He’d been looking forward to that mince pie.

It’s the same story the next day. He reaches for another helping of pigs in blankets (protein, so all good for a rugby player) and Andy makes a noise at the back of his throat. “Again, Owen? You’re not doing enough exercise to keep the weight off.”

He bites back a retort about Andy’s own physique not being the most athletic anymore. It’s not worth it, not with how his sisters are staring fixedly at their plates. He doesn’t like confrontation for himself, let alone when it’s making people he actually cares about uncomfortable.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and pulls his fork back. Maybe he didn’t need to eat them, so Andy was trying to be helpful. _Still didn’t have to be a dick about it_ , his subconscious reminds him.

The rest of the meal is silent, Andy not keen to talk and nobody else keen to provoke him. Owen’s walking out of the kitchen to wash his hands of the grease before helping tidy up when he feels Andy’s hand on his shoulder. He grits his teeth, determined not to flinch.

“Where are you going?” Andy asks, eyes flashing.

“To wash my hands,” he says, holding them up. “Then I was going to come back and help Mum with the cleaning.”

Andy scoffs. “Of course you were, little goody two shoes. Maybe next time, you can cook as well, instead of leaving your mother to do everything. You eat a lot, you know – you should pick up the slack while you’re here.”

He nods, fervently hoping Andy won’t notice the way his hands are shaking, still held up between them. “What do you say?” Andy asks, eyebrows raised.

“Yes, dad,” Owen murmurs, a scolded child. “Sorry, dad.”

Andy releases his shoulder. “Get on with it, then.”

Owen rushes to the toilet, locking the door behind him. He leans over the sink and stares at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t think he’s going to throw up, although the foul taste in his mouth tells him otherwise. His forehead is sweaty and his eyes are a little wild, but it’s nothing his family will notice. He washes his hands and wipes at his face with water before going back outside.

_Only two days left. You can do it._

*

All in all, it’s one of the worst Christmases he’s ever had. He’s definitely more aware of the strained atmosphere in the family home than before, is definitely contributing to it, and he feels guilty every time he sees his mum silently going about her business at Andy’s beck and call.

It’s teatime on Sunday evening, and Owen’s counting the minutes until he can flee to the safe haven of the Kruis house. His grandparents – his mum’s parents, thank God – are at the table too, chattering away, oblivious to the tension running through the air like cobwebs.

Everything’s going fine until dessert. As it’s the day after Boxing Day, the Christmas pudding has been finished and they’re back to mince pies and cream. Owen’s just finished pouring his cream – he can feel Andy’s eyes on him, and he’s not going to let that stop him – when his mum says, voice trembling slightly, “We have something to tell you all.”

He puts the jug down. Andy’s resting one hand on his mum’s arm and looking smug, so it can’t be a divorce or anything like that. _Shame_ , his horrible-yet-truthful subconscious decides.

“What is it, Colleen?” his grandma asks, worried. His grandad, to his credit, looks more relaxed than anyone at the table. Then again, he had started on the gin at lunchtime.

His mum smiles, still looking nervous. Owen hates the tension, and he can see it on his sisters’ faces too. “I’m pregnant,” she says, eyes darting around the room. “Due at the end of June.”

Grandma immediately starts cooing, saying how nice it will be to have a baby in the family again. Owen exchanges glances with his sisters; they seem just as uneasy.

They’ve never spoken about it, but there’s a shared understanding between the three of them that they are not going to repeat the cycle; if Owen had done what Andy had, he would have a four-year-old son and another kid on the way. Instead, it’s their parents having a baby.

He wants to melt in his chair and drain away – anything to escape the awkwardness of the conversation. He’s nineteen years old, for fuck’s sake. He’s not supposed to be having a new baby sibling. It was bad enough being born to parents in the midst of their GCSEs: how’s this kid meant to cope, having a big brother old enough to be their dad – closer in age to Andy than them as well?

He shudders. If it’s what they want, fine. He just can’t imagine it, for himself or for the baby. Gracie kicks him under the table, and he jerks his head up. His parents are both staring at him, his mum apprehensive and his dad demanding.

“Congratulations,” he mumbles. “I’m excited.” He couldn’t sound less genuine if he tried, but he can’t find it in himself to care. This is the last straw, he decides. He’s making it to the first team, and he’s getting out of here, whatever it takes.

Andy’ll be pleased, at least – he’s always criticised Owen’s apparent lack of motivation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you thought about this, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


	12. Chapter 12

Getting in the car after tea and driving off is the best feeling he’s had in months – better than leaving for the first time, even. He’s sorry for the rest of them that they can’t get away, but he’s selfishly pleased for himself. He’s out, and he’s planning to stay out.

Kruiser welcomes him back with a hug on the doorstep. “You didn’t call,” he says. “Was everything okay?”

Owen shrugs, pushes past him into the hall. “My mum’s having a baby,” he gets out.

When he stands up from taking his shoes off, Kruiser’s pulling a face. “Isn’t that – a bit, I don’t know, weird? Like, you’re an adult already.”

He smiles wryly. At least it’s not only him seeing the problem. “Yeah, it’s bloody uncomfortable. I know they had me when they were really young and now this kid is going to have pretty old parents, but still.” He fake-retches. “Good luck to ‘em, I guess.”

Then Leo and Sarah are in the hall too, hugging him and telling him how they missed him. It’s nice to be appreciated somewhere – that is, until Sarah says, “Any news from home?”

He can’t not tell her, especially because he’s told her son already. “My parents are having another baby.”

Sarah’s eyes widen. “Oh, wow. That’s lovely! You’ll be a great big brother, I’m sure.”

Owen nods awkwardly. It’s not the baby’s fault, but he isn’t really intending to be around much. Leo registers his discomfort, saying kindly, “Don’t overwhelm the lad, love. You can go upstairs and put your stuff away if you want, Owen.” He smiles gratefully and bolts up the stairs.

When he’s locked the door – a habit he picked up at twelve, lost over the last few months spent with the Kruises, and regained over the holiday – he allows himself to breathe. He’s been back to Harpenden and he’s survived. With his sisters’ birthdays in early January, he’s probably free of any obligatory visits until Mothers’ Day in March. Thank _God_ , is all he can say to that.

He runs through his plan in his head. Step one: get back into the Saracens first team. Step two: stay with Jamie. Step three: buy own house. It’s almost a Christmas wish list, or a set of resolutions for New Year 2011. He’s going to be twenty – probably time to be out of his parents’ house regardless of the motivation behind the move.

He’s made a good start on stage one, with Bedford currently sitting second in the Championship and having narrowly beaten the leaders, Worcester, a few weeks earlier. It’s not a perfect record, but then it doesn’t have to be. Sarries themselves have certainly never achieved such a thing, so they can’t expect it of some teenager they’ve dropped into a lower league.

(He ignores the Andy in his head telling him that it is absolutely expected and he’s already missed his chance. He might be on the coaching team but it’s ultimately Mark’s decision, and Owen trusts him.)

He puts his head down and works for it. A few more hours in the gym and on the training pitches, a few less cheat meals – it all puts him in a better position during matches to win, and win they do. The gap narrows to Worcester through the first three months of the year, and then Owen gets the call he’s been waiting for.

_Charlie’s injured. We need you back._

It might not be totally on merit, but he’s fine with that. Stage one has been accomplished.

He sits on the bench for a few games, closes out matches once the first backup flyhalf has been exhausted. He pushes and pushes and pushes – more gym, less snacks, more training, less socialising – and he’s rewarded with the starting berth against Gloucester at the end of April.

He closes out the regular season like he’s been closing out matches all year – neatly, tidily, and with a minimum of fuss. They win 35-12 against Gloucester at home, and then defeat Quins away, 13-16. Just like with Bedford, they finish in second place in the league, securing a home semi-final.

It’s all the more special that he and Jamie have both been named to the team for the weekend. His new housemate has supported him through the rigorous training programme he’s devised for himself (no intervention from the coaches – he doesn’t want to know what they’d think, let alone the nutritionists). They’ve played too much FIFA together and not done enough core workouts in the evening, and it’s the most relaxed Owen has felt in a long time.

No measure of relaxation seems to help against Gloucester, though. Robinson, the opposition flyhalf, scores a converted try and one of his three penalties, all in the first half. Owen kicks two successful penalties and misses three more, leaving the score at 6-10 at halftime.

He can feel the frustration from the team around him. It annoys him; he knows he’s got to do better, and he knows what some of the team think of him already. Owen’s not some jumped-up kid here because his dad’s on the coaching team. That might be why he ended up in the Saracens academy rather than anywhere else, but he’s here on merit. Fucking _Bedford_.

Jamie weasels into the backs’ halftime discussion to give him a cuddle. He’s on the bench, and Brits won’t be substituted unless his leg actually falls off, so Owen allows him to hug him. “You’re doing fine,” Jamie murmurs under the terse instructions of the coaches. “The rate they’re bleeding penalties, you’ll have loads more chances. Don’t worry about it. You’ve got this.”

Owen turns to hug him back when he hears the attack coach talking to him, and Jamie has mysteriously vanished. He’s left a lingering memory of warmth around Owen’s chest, and he lets that feeling surround him as they jog back out for the second half.

It’s a bodily reminder of _team_ and how they’re all playing for each other. Even if Owen doesn’t make all his kicks, the team should be giving him opportunities – or even scoring a try themselves, however radical it might sound.

They manage to keep Gloucester out of their 22 for most of the half, and finally shove their way into the Gloucester 22 in the last ten minutes. Despite his increased training routine, Owen can feel his heart in his throat. There’s not going to be a better chance.

Sure enough, one of their flankers gets pinged for hands in the ruck right in front of the posts. Owen slots it gratefully, taking the score up to 9-10. Six minutes left, and he can hear Jamie’s yelling above the rest of the home crowd. It spurs him on, shouting even louder to his teammates.

They rise to the occasion, drawing another penalty out towards one of the touchlines. Owen wants to kick for the corner – it’s the safer option, surely – but Steve overrules him and he points to the posts.

He’s not convinced, what with the crosswind that’s been gusting across the pitch all day, but he gives it his best shot. Somehow, that tiny sliver of doubt transmits itself from his brain to his foot to the ball, and it wobbles off course and bounces off the left post. He punches his thigh in anger. Three minutes left. One point in it. A miserable 3/7 success rate.

Steve’s screaming himself hoarse at this point, and Owen and Wiggy are doing their best to match him. It feels like the volume of their voices alone buoys the team forward until the referee blows his whistle, hand pointing back towards the Saracens try line.

Owen takes a long breath. They’ve got the penalty now. They’ve created the chance, and it’s his job to deliver it. He doesn’t want to be overdramatic and say that his career depends on this one kick, but it kind of does. Miss this, and it’s goodbye Premiership, hello bloody Bedford.

He sets the ball down on the tee, takes practised steps back and out to the side. Suddenly, he’s back in the park with George, dreaming about the day they’re going to sign their professional contracts. The crowd has fallen silent, save for a few Gloucester fans whistling. He can’t hear any of it. Instead, there’s leaves rustling in the trees lining the pitches and Leo panting a few metres behind him where George is holding him back.

He takes half a step forward, then kicks, follows through with a little hop. The ball arcs through the air – he can’t look, he’s going to be sick – and the crowd erupts. He looks back at the posts. The touch judges are holding up their flags.

He did it. Oh, thank fuck, he did it.

12-10 to Saracens, with one last play. Steve catches the ball off the surprisingly lacklustre Gloucester restart and hoofs it into touch as the clock goes dead, seemingly forgetting his forward status in the heat of the moment.

Owen’s grabbed from behind, and normally he’d be freaking out and pushing away, but he hears Jamie’s delighted whoops before he has time to react. “Fucking hell, you absolute beauty!” Jamie yells into his ear as he tries not to stagger under the weight of an overexcited hooker. “Left it bloody late – I was shitting myself!”

He twists, gets Jamie’s feet on the floor and hugs him. “I wasn’t trying to miss that many kicks, I promise,” he says. The slightly hurt edge to his voice doesn’t seem to fit with the jubilant surroundings of Vicarage Road and Jamie picks up on it immediately.

“I know, mate. Still, it was good enough to get us over the line, and that’s all that matters.” Owen wants to protest that it’s not good enough. He could have saved thousands of people a lot of stress by kicking all the penalties on offer before halftime, and then put the match out of sight in the second half. Jamie gives him a warning glance, though, so he decides to hold off on the self-flagellation – verbally, at least.

The rest of the team seem pretty happy with him, if the handshake line is anything to go by. He’s subject to more enthusiastic hug-tackles than he would normally be in an entire game, but he’s fine with it given the broad grins on everyone’s faces.

After a raucous victory lap, they’re herded into the changing room. Owen is handed a beer as he walks in like everyone else, but he slips it under the bench instead of drinking it. It contains a minimum of two hundred calories, after all, and the season isn’t over yet.

He avoids Andy’s gaze like the plague as the coaches deliver the short version of their post-match feedback. He knows he won’t be happy, and he’s braced to run to the showers the second Mark finishes speaking. He can hide in there for ten minutes, then go to the physios, and then Andy will probably have given up – or his rage will have diffused sufficiently that he won’t think Owen’s worth chastising.

They did win, however it happened.

In the event, Andy traipses out with the rest of the coaches and he’s free to relax. He still goes and has a shower and visits the physios for his knee, it’s just all conducted at a far slower pace.

The post-match dinner is fine too; Owen integrates himself with a few of the Gloucester guys he knows and brings Jamie with him as a buffer in case a certain someone was in the mood for publicly criticising him. Andy keeps his distance though, so Owen can enjoy the half of the dessert he allows himself in relative peace.

Then Jamie’s shepherding him out of the club and to his car. “Home time for the conquering hero,” he says, opening the passenger door with a flourish. Owen flushes, glad there’s no one around to see his friend’s antics, and gets in.

It’s a relatively short drive from the club to Jamie’s house, so Owen’s surprised when Jamie’s phone starts buzzing in his pocket. “Hang on,” Jamie says, once they’ve stopped at a red light. “Can you answer it? It’s probably Elliot.” He hands over the phone and Owen clicks the answer button, putting the call on speaker so Jamie can hear too.

“Jamie, baby!” Elliot says brightly, sounding delighted, and that’s all he hears before Jamie cuts in.

“I’m in the car with Owen,” he says quickly. “You’re on speaker.”

“Oh, okay,” Elliot says, and something’s missing from his voice when he speaks again. “Great game, both of you. Nearly thought I was going to have a heart attack when the ball went off the post for that one penalty, Faz.”

Owen grunts. “Me too. Not my finest moment.”

“Got the job done in the end,” Elliot says. “But, Jamie, what did you think about Smith’s scrummaging? Like, wasn’t he wheeling it the whole time?”

“I don’t think it was on purpose,” Jamie answers, eyes firmly on the road ahead. “At least, not all the time. Our guys were definitely taking advantage of it a few times, and the ref only picked up on him doing it.”

“Yeah, but his elbow positioning,” Elliot says. “I don’t know if you could see from where you were, but he looked like he was trying to bring it down half the time as well.”

Owen zones out. The finer points of scrummaging technique have never been the most interesting thing to him, although Elliot apparently knows enough to hold a conversation about them. Maybe Wasps have been making them train in different positions, he thinks idly. Whatever the answer may be, he’s glad Jamie has someone to talk to about this stuff – and, more importantly, that it isn’t him. Jamie and Elliot are close friends, he knows, but he doesn’t think he’d be able to do that for anyone else.

George’s face floats into his mind, uninvited, and he huffs. It’s been happening more and more recently – he’ll think about George at the most unhelpful moments, and every time the guilt gets worse because he’s so bad at keeping in touch.

They didn’t see each other at all over Christmas, and he was so busy with the U20 Six Nations that he completely forgot to text George on his birthday. Anyway, isn’t it worse to text after the day than to text at all?

Whatever the rationale, he hasn’t spoken to George in person or via text in months. He’s talked more to Elliot merely as a result of his proximity to Jamie, and although they’ve dropped in little titbits of information about how George is getting on in his second full season of league, it’s generally suppressed with a loaded look from one or the other of them.

It makes him sad, that his friends can’t talk about their other friend because of his presence. He tries to make himself scarce when Elliot calls for his twice-weekly chat, but Jamie notices him doing it and drags him back. Maybe if he had a bit more of Jamie’s bullish attitude to friendship, he wouldn’t have lost one of the best things he had going for him so quickly.

“Goodnight, love,” Jamie’s saying, taking his phone out of Owen’s hand and ending the call. He startles, not realising they’d arrived home so quickly. He bends down with a wince to grab his kit bag, and Jamie lays a hand on his shoulder. “You alright, mate?” he asks.

“Yeah, just a bit stiff,” Owen replies, rubbing at his lower back to emphasise it.

“Not like that, you-” Jamie mutters. He gets out of the car, and Owen knows he’s missed a step. He genuinely doesn’t know how he’s messed up this time, though. Jamie was asking how he was, and he told him – a bit stiff; nothing a good stretch can’t help. What else was he supposed to say?

Jamie unlocks the front door, flicking on the lights. Owen trails after him, dumping his boots by the back door to clean in the morning. He can have the evening off – and they’ll only be covered in grass again when he goes out for kicking practice in the afternoon.

“I’m going to call Elliot,” Jamie says, rooting through the fridge for a snack while Owen swings his legs off the end of the kitchen table.

“You just spoke to him?” he asks, confused. They’re close, but not that close.

Jamie looks at him and sighs. “Alright. I’m going to call Elliot and Fordy. You’re free to join if you want.”

Owen bites down on his lip, hard. “I – maybe not tonight. I’m a bit tired.”

Jamie sighs again, and Owen has the distinct feeling of disappointing his friend. “You know, he misses you too.”

“Who, George?” he asks, nervousness transforming into anger in a split second. “He’s not doing a very good job of showing it, then, is he?”

“What, and you are?” Jamie scoffs. “Don’t give me that, Faz. You’re both as thick as each other.”

“This kind of thing doesn’t work out,” Owen says defensively. “I tried, but it’s not working.” Jamie starts answering, and Owen cuts him off. “And don’t talk about you and Elliot – that’s different.”

“Yeah, because we’re-” Jamie starts, then snaps his mouth shut with an audible click. “Look, you should talk to him. If you’re willing to lose someone as great as Fordy, then you’re a fucking idiot. Anyway, me and El manage to talk to him, and we’re just as busy as you are. Get your act together, mate.”

With that, Jamie leaves the room. Owen feels like he’s been punched in the gut. Maybe he is being a wimp, giving himself the out that George isn’t texting so he doesn’t have to put in the effort either. If there’s one thing he knows he can do, it’s pushing to achieve things.

When did he decide George’s friendship wasn’t something he wanted anymore?

He gets out his phone and sends a quick _how’s it going?_ It’s not much, but it’s a start, and it makes him realise just how little effort it takes. George is on a call with his actual, current friends now anyway so he won’t answer for a while, but it chips a little guilt off the heavy mass of it lying in his stomach.

He sits in the living room and works his way through the puzzle page at the back of the newspaper – Jamie’s one concession to adulthood – while Jamie’s laughter comes through the ceiling from his room above. It only makes him feel more alone. He’d count those three as some of his closest friends if anyone asked, and somewhere along the way he’s lost them to loftier ideals of _team_ and _success_.

Given most of the team are in their twenties or thirties with steady partners and/or kids, maybe it should be less of a surprise that he’s not close friends with most of them. Coming up through the age groups, everyone had the same experiences and usually went to the same school, so friendship was as convenient as it was an advantage.

Now, though, he can’t just rely on the team to supply his friendships. Just like Jamie said, in his infuriating eleven months’ additional wisdom, he’s going to have to work for it. He’s even let his friendship with Kruiser slide since he moved out of his house, he realises with a twinge of shame.

Maybe it’s time to adapt the plan and insert a new step – buying his own house can wait for the time being. Now, he needs to focus on the new stage three: reviving friendships. Saracens have one game left this season, and then he’s free for at least a couple of weeks. Before, he’d been planning to work on his fitness and recovery, but now there’s something more important at stake.

It’s not enough to make him go upstairs and join Jamie’s conversation, though. That’s private, and he doesn’t want to butt in. Not yet, anyway. Soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you thought about this, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com), and I hope you're all doing well and staying safe.


	13. Chapter 13

Before he has time to resurrect some dying friendships, there’s the small matter of the Premiership final to deal with. Owen’s starting alongside Wiggy, and Jamie’s got the number sixteen on his back. Eighty thousand pairs of eyes are on them in the stadium and he doesn’t even want to think about how many more are watching on TV.

He’s up against Toby Flood at flyhalf for Leicester. What he gains in age, he loses in experience so that battle is fairly even. Neil de Kock and Ben Youngs at nine – they’ve both been in and around their respective international squads for years. The rest of the players stack up fairly evenly as well.

The coaches reckon it’s going to be a tight game, and Owen’s inclined to agree.

Sarries start the match hot, driving up to the Tigers try line within five minutes. Owen’s screaming at Neil to bring the ball wide, to give it to the backs, but the forwards keep picking and going like they’ve got all day.

Barnes blows for a penalty and Owen’s about to go and give his scrumhalf a piece of his mind when he realises it’s in their favour. Then – oh, thank God – he’s showing Ben Youngs a yellow card for killing the ball only a few metres short of the line.

They don’t have anything to show for the man advantage except a few more penalties, taking the score to 6-6. Then Brits, replacing Jamie in Owen’s heart (at least temporarily) as his favourite hooker, holds his defender and feeds the ball to James Short, who crashes over the line.

The ref takes way too long agonising over an obvious decision, in Owen’s opinion, but it’s eventually give and he converts it from the touchline to take them 13-6 ahead with half an hour gone.

It’s back and forth after that, seesawing to and fro until, somehow, Owen finds himself in the seventy-fourth minute of the match, staring at the huge 22-18 on the scoreboard. He has to breathe and push away the baying of the crowd – both Saracens and Leicester supporters.

They’re four points ahead with six minutes to play. Tigers need two penalties, or a try. Steve’s clearly done the same maths in his head, and he’s shouting instructions to everyone. _Bodies on the line, leave it all out here. Bring it home, boys._

Owen sets his jaw as Flood steps up to take the restart. Six minutes for the win. He’s going to try like hell for those six minutes, and he believes that the team will too. Anything for the team.

Some more desperate play, Leicester with a penalty in the seventy-ninth minute after a collapsed scrum. They go to the corner – catch and drive from the lineout. Owen feels helpless. It’s up to the forwards now; he’s not allowed to get stuck at the bottom of a maul.

Phases and phases and minutes pass, and then Leicester win yet another penalty, six minutes into overtime. Crane taps and goes. Brown brings him crashing to the floor, and then the ruck forms.

Owen’s right by it, close enough to see all the action. Youngs sticks his hands into the ruck, scrabbling around for the ball, then gets his boot in as well when that doesn’t work. Barnes twigs almost immediately and – penalty for Saracens.

It’s over.

They’ve done it.

They’ve won.

Owen grabs onto the closest red and black shirt he can find, almost headbutting Jacques in his excitement. “We did it!” he yells, jumping up and down.

“Fucking right, Fazlet!” Burger shouts back.

Owen breaks away to hug the rest of the guys, still bouncing with adrenaline. He’s patted and punched and slapped around, everyone grinning. It’s the first Premiership title for the club, and they’ve deprived Leicester of their fourth in five years. It’s incredible.

“Absolute legend,” Jamie breathes into his ear, hot and damp. “Seriously, mate – that was awesome!”

“Course it fucking was!” he laughs, slinging an arm around his mate’s shoulders and surveying the stadium.

Some of the seats – probably of the Leicester supporters – have emptied already, leaving the Sarries faithful to crowd to the edges of the stands. Owen grins. He’s not in it for the adulation, not really. He prefers the fizz of adrenaline in his veins and the feeling of a job well done – for the team, but also for himself.

They’re all gathered around, talking and joking through the settling tiredness, as the stage is assembled and the trophy is carried out. It’s seeing the glint of the metal and the rows upon rows of yellow-ribboned winners’ medals – that’s when it hits him.

He hasn’t just made the first team. He’s brought them a Premiership victory, with no backup flyhalf on the bench if things started going wrong. He’s earned that trust, and this trophy.

He hugs Jamie again, who pats him on the back. “Proud of you, buddy,” Jamie says softly. “It’s not been the best year, I know, but you got it done.”

Owen presses his face into Jamie’s shoulder. “Still got the World Championship to do, mate. Not finished yet.”

Jamie groans, but it’s a fond enough noise for Owen not to worry. “Don’t even mention it. I could sleep for a week.”

He prods him in the side, snickering. “Aren’t we playing in – what, eight days? We’ve got to celebrate this, so that’s tonight and tomorrow gone, and then we’re going to Italy on Wednesday.”

Jamie whines, slumps onto Owen. “Fine, dickhead. I’ll sleep for two days, and then you can wake me up to go to the airport.”

Owen’s ready with another comeback, but then the announcer is calling the Tigers up to accept their runners’ up medals and he has to applaud. They all look absolutely wrecked, and he can sympathise. He’d be feeling the same if he was in their place.

The Leicester squad troop across the stage to collect their medals, a few of them even choosing to keep them on instead of ripping them off straight away. Owen doesn’t know what he’d do with the physical reminder of how he came so close, yet fell short. He’d probably hide it somewhere until he could face the memories, he decides, and then it’s their turn to go up and be greeted by the roars of the crowd.

He follows Jamie up onto the platform, the click of their studs piercing the dull noise of the crowd. He’s going to go deaf if they keep this up much longer, he thinks absently.

Then Steve’s lifting the trophy and everyone’s yelling, _again_ , and spraying champagne and posing for endless photos on the stage, on the grass, individually and in groups. It’s like some protracted wedding, except it’s a celebration of their love of the sport and how it has rewarded them.

He doesn’t hide the beer when they get to the changing room. This time, he chugs it down and goes for a second. Fuck it, he’s won the Prem – is there a better time to go on a bender?

(He does hide his third can while Andy’s making the rounds in the dressing room. He can play it off as residual adrenaline for the moment, but the evidence of alcohol wouldn’t go down too well, he suspects.)

They sing the victory song and get more champagne everywhere and drink and shower and drink some more. Owen clings to Jamie’s side throughout. Somewhere in his half-drunken brain, there’s some logic at work about how Jamie has a greater mass so he’ll deal with the alcohol better – or something like that.

More beer is thrust upon him and then the team are getting into taxis to hit the clubs. Owen’s carded on the way in to the first one, which is apparently absolutely hysterical to everyone else. He downs about four shots in a row just to shut them up, and then retires to the corner of the dancefloor to catch his breath.

He’s gazing muzzily out over the crowd – somehow he’s found a step that gives him a useful vantage point – when someone hops up next to him. “Hi,” she says, resting her hand on his shoulder like a declaration of intent. “I’m Georgie.”

She’s tall, blonde, and smells flowery enough to cut through the stink of sweat clogging Owen’s nostrils. “Hey,” he says, and her eyes widen.

“Oh, you’re not from round here, are you?” she asks, fingers now gripping his shoulder slightly.

“Uh, no,” he says, trying to focus on her face with some success. “Wigan. I’m Owen.”

She smiles, even more teeth on show than before. The lights of the club glint off them, and he feels like he’s getting a headache. That, or he should have had a concussion check earlier. “Well, it’s lovely to meet you,” she continues. “Are you here by yourself?”

He scans the room. A heaving mass of bodies under swirling spotlights, but nobody he knows. “I was here with my mates, but they’ve all gone,” he says. Even Jamie, and they were supposed to be looking after each other.

“I would say it’s a shame, but…” She trails her fingers across his cheek, and he suddenly realises that they’re pressed up against each other and he’s been pushed against the back wall of the room by the shoving of the crowd. “I’d like to get to know you better, Owen.”

He nods – path of least resistance, and he doesn’t have much energy left after the game and all the drinking. She takes that as permission, and moves even closer. “Can I-?” she asks, and he nods again.

Then she’s kissing him, up against the wall and – wow. She’s into this – _really_ into this. Owen brings his hands up to rest on her waist, while she’s moved up to attack his neck and jaw. It’s not her fault that he feels slightly floaty, like he might fall asleep or ascend to the astral plane.

That feeling is wiped out soon enough, though, when she moves her leg between his and they’re grinding up on each other. He’s firmly rooted in his body now, chasing that gorgeous sensation in his groin, and she’s doing the same. Her kisses are punctuated with short, breathy gasps against his lips. He pulls her impossibly closer, encouraging her push harder against him.

It could have been a few minutes or a few hours later when she pulls back, flushed and shuddering. “Want to take this to somewhere more private?” she asks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and then she’s tugging him along by the hand until they’re outside the disabled loo.

“This okay with you?” she asks. One of her hands is resting on the door handle – it doesn’t seem like much of a choice. He nods, pressing one hand to his groin for a moment to relieve the pressure, and she yanks him inside.

*

He wakes up, head aching with the force of a hundred high tackles. It takes him a second to work out where he is – all he can register in that time is that he’s lying on a sofa and there’s a bucket next to his head, which he promptly rolls over and vomits into.

Whichever angel from heaven had left the bucket also put a bottle of water next to it. He takes a long swig and spits the dregs of sick into the bucket too. His whole body aches, his mouth is dry yet wet, and he could happily sleep for another four hours.

The bright sunlight shining in through the window and the growling of his stomach prevents that, and he forces himself upright. Once his eyes have adjusted to being vertical, he can see that he’s back in Jamie’s house. He’s missed the bucket with a few splatters of vomit, he notes, embarrassed, so he’s going to have to clean that up later – when he can stand the smell again.

Owen gets to his feet, and sways his way through to the kitchen. Jamie’s sat at the table with his laptop, talking to someone – 99% chance of it being Elliot, let’s be honest – and picking at a sandwich.

“Hey, Jamie,” he says hoarsely, leaning on the side for balance.

Jamie turns, immediately snorting out a laugh at the sight of him. “Bloody hell, mate, you look awful.”

Owen pulls a face, slowly making his way across the room to collapse into a chair opposite his friend. “What time is it?”

“Two in the afternoon. It’s still Sunday.”

Owen groans, letting his head thwack on the table. “What the fuck happened last night?”

Jamie ruffles his hair not too gently. “Let me just say bye to El, mate, then I’ll tell you what I know.”

Owen sits there while Jamie finishes his conversation, the usual half-sentences making no sense (and they wouldn’t have done even without the alcohol making its way through his system). His mind is telling him it wants a sandwich, but his stomach is threatening to rebel at the very thought, so he stays put.

“Okey dokey,” Jamie says, closing his laptop and pushing it away. “What do you remember?” Owen doesn’t like the shark like grin on his face, but then he’s in the weaker position here.

“I remember the shots at the club, and dancing with a couple of the guys, and then – oh _shit_ ,” he says, eyes widening. “There was a girl, and – fucking hell.” He covers his face with his hands, trying to ignore Jamie’s chortling.

“That would explain the messages on your phone, mate,” he says cheerily, passing it over. Owen scrolls through in a panic. He’d dealt with most of the congratulatory messages the night before, so the texts from the girl – Georgie, apparently – are at the top of the list.

_It’s Georgie from last night – I had a great time, would definitely be up for a repeat performance_

_Hmu if you’re interested ;)_

“Oh, bloody hell,” Owen swears. “Fuck. How did I – I literally don’t remember anything after that.”

Jamie steeples his fingers under his chin. “Well, you were with me and Alex and a few of the other guys, and then we lost you – you know, like happens in clubs. You’re a big boy, so we left you to it.” Owen groans again. “Steve eventually found you when we were going to the next club, about an hour and a half later, so we picked you up and kept going.”

“How many clubs?” Owen doesn’t even want to know, in case it makes his headache worse.

“Four?” Jamie says, shrugging. “I don’t really know. It all went a bit hazy after the second one, but we got a taxi back and I made sure you were in the recovery position.”

“Well, thanks,” Owen says grudgingly. Maybe his drunken ideas about relative body mass and its effect on alcohol consumption had something to them, if Jamie’s memories extended that much further than his own.

“In exchange for my good deeds, you need to give me all the gossip about this Georgie,” Jamie says, getting up and pouring Owen a large glass of water.

“Was it only me that did something like that?” he asks desperately. Surely there’s at least one other person Jamie could be pestering.

“Uh, yeah – I think pretty much everyone else’s partners would have something to say if they were getting with people in clubs.”

“What about you?” Owen asks hopefully. If there’s any time for a reverse uno card, it’s this, surely. “You’re not dating anyone – aren’t you?”

Jamie shoves the glass at him. “We’re talking about you, not me,” he says, clipped. “Anyway, it’s not my thing. Now, spill.”

Owen sighs, pushing the glass between his hands. No way out of this one, apparently. “After I lost you lot, I was standing by myself and this girl came up to me,” he starts slowly. “She, I don’t know, was kissing me, and then we went to the loos, and…”

Jamie whistles, making Owen wince. “Owen Farrell, you absolute dog! We all thought you were so sweet and innocent, and actually you were off hooking up in the toilet of the first club we went to. That’s efficient, mate.”

“Yeah. I mean, we didn’t talk much – obviously, it was a club – but I think she was nice? I bloody hope so, anyway.”

“Did she know who you were?” Jamie asks, concern in his voice for the first time.

“If she did, she hid it well,” Owen says. “About the only thing I can remember properly is her being surprised at my accent.”

Jamie snorts. “Mate, I think that applies to about every interaction you’ve had in the last four years outside of your family and Fordy.”

Owen tries to hit him and misses. “Yeah, what the fuck ever, mate. Comes with living in enemy territory, you know.”

Jamie dodges him easily, laughing. “Poor ickle Faz,” he snickers. “Anyway – want to watch some trash TV and eat shit? It’s the offseason now. Sort of, I guess.”

Owen takes the out. “Sure. Let’s go.” He follows after Jamie, flops back down to the sofa again. “Oh, I’ll get rid of this,” he says, gesturing at the bucket.

“You’d bloody better,” Jamie says, propping his feet up. “I’m not that nice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Replay of the 2011 Premiership final.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fuzvnKcTSXE)   
>  [Owen's reaction to the win.](https://secure.i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/01908/farrell_1908246c.jpg)
> 
> I'd love to hear what you thought about this, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


	14. Chapter 14

The impromptu offseason lasts a grand total of three days, and then they’re on the plane out to Italy for the Junior World Championship. Owen still has a lingering headache as they join up with the rest of the squad in the Treviso hotel.

The buckets of water they get dumped on their heads in the carpark just about clear it up, though – apparently the Leicester lads in the squad weren’t best pleased at them showing up a day later than them after playing the same match at the weekend. Maybe they hadn’t factored in all the drinking, Owen thinks, shaking his head and spraying water everywhere.

Mercifully, the coaches come outside before it can get too out of hand and herd them back indoors. Owen takes his room key – he’s with Chris Cook, which makes sense as they’ll probably be the starting halfback pair – and traipses upstairs.

“Evening, Faz,” Chris says when he walks in, still dripping. “Nice welcome out there, huh?”

“Refreshing, let’s say,” he grumbles. His suitcase was caught up in the mayhem, but hopefully the contents haven’t been too affected. “Looking forward to the weekend?”

“For sure,” Chris says. He props himself up on one elbow, watching Owen inspect his damp clothes. “Early evening kick-off though – might be a bit warm.”

“That’s Italy in June, mate,” Owen says. The stuff on the outside of his case is damp to the touch, but it’s nothing a few hours drying won’t fix.

They fall silent after that. It’s not awkward, just the way things are when you don’t talk outside of international camps and know very little about each other. Owen could start a conversation about their chances against Ireland on Saturday, but he’d rather unpack. Flights are tiring.

When he’s finished arranging his kit and boots to his satisfaction, he turns to look at Chris. “You coming to find any of the guys?”

Chris shakes his head, holds up his phone as an excuse. “My girlfriend’s meant to be calling soon, mate, sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Owen says, shrugging. “I’ll keep out of your hair for a bit.” Chris gives him a thumbs up and goes back to his texting. He doesn’t actually know where he’s going when he lets himself out of the room – Jamie’s surely holed up with Elliot by now, though he’s not sure where.

He messages Jamie to ask where he is, and goes down to the lobby to kill some time. There are other people around, and he should be bonding with the team, but sometimes he just wants a break.

(He’s ignoring the fact that he’s done nothing but have a break for the last four days. He’s a teenager still; he can afford to be lazy every now and again.)

As luck would have it, the only other person in the lobby when he gets there is Alex. “Ayup, Faz,” he says, getting to his feet and pulling him in for a hug. “Nice job in the final, mate – think you can keep it going?”

Owen grins. “I’ll do my best.”

Talking to Alex is easy. There’s no layer of repressed mirth at his accent, or having to rethink his sentences to remove any particularly northern phrases. Alex and all his woes of being from Barnard Castle understands.

“Spoken to Fordy recently?” Alex asks, feet nudging Owen’s where they’re both resting on the table between them. “I see him on TV a bit, but we weren’t close enough to talk, I reckon.”

“A couple of times, yeah,” Owen says evasively. He doesn’t specify _when_ the couple of times were – if Alex thinks they’re good friends, he’s not going to spoil the illusion. “He’s doing well.”

His captain rolls his eyes. “Honestly, my mum absolutely loves him. Every time we watch a Bradford match, she’s going on about what a nice young lad he is and his lovely eyes.”  
Owen snorts. “Emphasis on the young, mate.”

Alex shrugs. “I don’t know. If you’re good enough, you’re old enough – I think he could have been here if he’d stuck with union.”

Owen lets himself imagine. If George had taken a union academy contract, they would still be together in Harpenden, and maybe even for England. This distance that has grown between them wouldn’t exist. Things would be – _like normal_ , he wants to say. _How they should be._

“He’s always been an overachiever,” he settles for, after a too-long pause. At that moment, his phone buzzes with a text. “Jamie wants me up in his room,” he says apologetically.

“No problem, mate,” Alex says. “See you bright and early for training tomorrow.”

“You bet,” Owen says, leaving with a wave.

He makes his way up to the third floor, knocks on the door of Jamie’s room. It swings open in seconds to reveal Elliot’s beaming face. “Fancy seeing you here,” he chirps.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Owen says wryly. “You two are like magnets – I look the other way for five minutes and you’re already attached at the hip again.”

Jamie shrugs, Elliot sitting back down next to him on his bed. “What can I say? It’s just the force of my personality.”

“So forceful you’ve kicked your roommate out,” Owen remarks, looking at the unoccupied bed opposite and opting to take the chair.

“Henry’s a nice guy,” Elliot says. “He knows we need our alone time. He’s probably off with Ryan and Will – front row union and all that.”

Owen hums. “As long as you didn’t kick him out – he’s the only Sale guy here, after all.”

Jamie looks offended. “Mate, I promise you, he left of his own accord.”

“Yeah, the second I showed up, he was out like a shot – off like a shot? Whatever, he went straight away, before I even had time to ask,” Elliot says.

Jamie rubs at his shoulder. “It’s nothing you did, El,” he says. Owen frowns. He hadn’t though the usually happy-go-lucky Elliot would be upset by such behaviour – Henry’s new to the squad this year, so there couldn’t have been time for conflict yet.

“Alex was asking about George earlier,” Owen says, hoping to change the subject.

“Which Alex?” Jamie asks.

“Gray, what do you think?” he answers, recrossing his legs. “It’s not like we’ve got a million of them this year – it’s the Sams and the Matts you’ve got to look out for at the moment.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing Jamie Elliott got injured in April,” Elliot says, a touch of humour returning to his voice. “That would have tipped it over the edge on the name front.”

“Couple of Ryans, too,” Jamie adds thoughtfully. “Chris and Christian, but that’s a bit different.”

“Have you guys been talking to George much recently?” Owen asks. The conversation’s gone off track, in his view.

“Some,” Elliot says, glancing at Jamie. “He’s been busy, though. Season’s picking up, and with Luke.”

There’s a flicker of something like panic in Jamie’s eyes, but Owen’s already asking the question. “Who’s Luke?”

Elliot rests a steadying hand on Jamie’s knee, almost like he’s restraining him. “His boyfriend,” he says evenly, maintaining eye contact with Owen all the while.

Owen blinks. George is gay, he knows, but it’s one thing to know it in abstract and one thing to have direct proof of it. Sure, there had been pub guy, but a boyfriend? That’s brave.

Jamie and Elliot are watching him warily from the other bed, and he knows he has to get this right. He can’t be jealous that they know and he doesn’t. He’s got to be a good friend, no matter how little the friendship seems to be worth at the moment.

“Oh, right,” he says, trying desperately to seem cool with it. He is, but he’s always just a bit too awkward for it to come across that way. “Is he nice?”

“From what we’ve heard,” Jamie says. His voice is tight, but Elliot at least seems more relaxed. “He’s doing an apprenticeship. A good northern boy, by all accounts.”

Owen tugs at a loose thread on his shirt. “That’s good. George deserves it.” He’s staring down at his lap to avoid looking at his friends on the bed; he can just detect Elliot’s frantic murmuring to Jamie on the edge of his hearing, and he wants to give them some privacy for whatever they’re talking about. Maybe there’s something less savoury about Luke and his relationship to George that they don’t know whether to tell him.

“Faz – Owen,” Elliot says, at a normal volume now. “I, uh – Fordy trusts you to keep a secret, and I do too.” Owen studies his face. His jaw is set, almost defensive, but nothing as steely as Jamie’s glower next to him.

He nods, hoping his face is in as inviting and trustworthy expression as he can muster. “Whatever it is, I’ve got your back.”

“I’m bi,” Elliot says, almost as an exhalation of breath. His shoulders drop, and Jamie’s instinctively gripping his arm.

“Oh, shit,” Owen says. “Congratulations, mate. I really appreciate you telling me, and I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

(He may or may not have rehearsed an answer to use in this specific scenario after he screwed up his response to George’s coming out. He knows when to put the effort in, after all.)

“Thanks, Faz,” Elliot says. Jamie still hasn’t released his protective hold on his arm. “I didn’t think you’d be a dick, but you never know in rugby.”

Owen nods. He can think of more than a few teammates and people he knows who could easily fall into that category. “Is there anyone at the moment?” he asks. He doesn’t need to be as protective of Elliot as he was with George; they’re the same age, for starters, and he doesn’t look like he’s about to cry.

Elliot bites his lip, shrugs. “It’s complicated.”

Owen raises his eyebrows. “Complicated in an _it’s a guy_ way, or just normal complicated?”

Jamie huffs. “Complicated in the same way as you and Georgie are complicated, _mate_.” Never has the term of affection sounded so hostile coming from Jamie’s mouth.

“Georgie?” Elliot asks, eyes swivelling between the two. “Who’s that, and why haven’t I been told?”

Owen groans. This was decidedly not the direction he wanted this conversation to go in. “We – hooked up, I guess – in a club on Saturday, after the win. I don’t really remember it but she texted me the next day, and we’ve been kind of chatting.”

“‘Kind of chatting’?” Elliot says, the air quotes evident in his voice. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Owen shifts uncomfortably – although he’d rather it was him than Jamie, who’s looking more relaxed now. “Well, she asked if I wanted to meet up, and I said I was going to be in Italy for the next few weeks. She’s promised to watch our matches, if she can find them. Apart from that – literally just talking. No funny business.”

Elliot sighs. “That’s a bit boring, mate. Mind you, if she’s willing to watch our shitty games, maybe she’s worth keeping around.”

Jamie barks out a laugh. “Yeah, I don’t think our Faz would date anyone who isn’t interested in rugby – that’s all he bloody talks about.”

“Anyway, don’t talk about our matches like that,” Owen says snippily. He can’t defend himself against Jamie’s comment, so he may as well go on the attack – for the team, of course. “We’re good, and we can’t afford negative mindsets.”

He ducks his head. “And there’s nothing wrong with wanting shared interests with someone. I’m not going to start dating a rugby player, so a girl who likes rugby is the next best thing.”

“Women play rugby too, Faz,” Jamie says. There’s a strange tension in the air now, like he’s missed some obvious implication and is now stumbling around in the dark, hitting things and upsetting his friends.

“I didn’t say they couldn’t,” he answers, flailing a bit to save the conversation. “I just – don’t think I could handle a relationship with someone else who plays rugby. It’s like – oh, I don’t know. I don’t know where I’m going with this, sorry.”

Elliot shrugs. He’s about to reply when their phones all buzz. It’s the coaches warning them that curfew is in ten minutes, and Owen eases himself out of his chair with no small feeling of relief. “I’d better, um, head out,” he says, moving towards the door. “See you in the morning.”

His friends nod, waving their goodbyes, and though the room is silent as he leaves, he’s sure he can hear them talking furiously as the door falls shut behind him.

He shakes his head to clear it of all the confusion, and walks back to his room. Chris must be done with his girlfriend now, whether they were just talking or doing something else.

He swipes his card to let himself in. His roommate is lying in exactly the same position as he was when he left a while before, phone still holding his attention. “Alright, mate?” he asks.

“Great, Faz, thanks,” Chris answers with a grin. “Thanks for staying out of the way for a bit – we both really needed it.” He smiles awkwardly. It’s not something he wants to think about, his roommate getting off just a few feet away from his own bed before he’s even slept in it – but it could be a useful segue into what’s on his mind.

He pulls off his shoes and sits down on his own – happily untouched – bed. “This might be random,” he starts, “but would you ever consider dating a rugby player? Like, a girl that plays rugby, obviously.”

Chris hums. “I mean, it wouldn’t stop me dating her, if she was nice enough. Why do you ask?”

Owen fiddles with his duvet. “I don’t know. Just thinking about it, really.” _About how George – and Elliot, too – could date actual, professional rugby players, and wouldn’t that be weird? Having both partners in the relationship constantly travelling and being beaten up in training and on the pitch – he can’t see the appeal._

Chris doesn’t deign that with an answer, and Owen goes to brush his teeth before getting into bed. He can’t stop thinking about what Elliot had said.

He has two gay – no, attracted to men – friends. Somehow, they’re both in rugby, despite everything, and maybe now he can see the importance of people like Nigel Owens and Gareth Thomas. Dickheads abound in rugby, but there are also a few decent examples of how you can succeed without being straight, and that can only be a good thing.

Doesn’t mean he’s going to be trying it any time soon, though.

He puts it out of his mind as best he can, lying there in a dark hotel room in Italy. There’s a game on Saturday, and he needs to be on top form for training in the morning. He owes it to himself and – more importantly – to the team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Owen Farrell's JWC Diary: Part I](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AT7qo2lPEq4) \- I promise you, it's just as good as it sounds.
> 
> [Tumblr!](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com)


	15. Chapter 15

They sail through the pool stages, scoring at least three tries in every game. Ireland is a surprisingly easy win, Scotland fold under pressure like they have done for the last few years, and South Africa put the pressure on them for a while until Alex and Christian score in the second half to put the game to bed.

Elliot touches down for the first try, and Owen breathes a sigh of relief. He wasn’t exactly worried about his friend’s performance, but he knows from first-hand experience that dredging up any kind of emotions before a match can affect execution. Clearly, coming out to him hadn’t been an issue for Elliot.

They have four days until their semi-final against France. That’s one day for recovery – a nice bit of sightseeing in Treviso – and then two days of training, and match day. It’s a lot more intense than a normal training week, but then it has to be a short tournament. There probably isn’t the budget for keeping them out in Italy for longer, let alone negotiating contract fulfilments with twenty different clubs.

Owen’s fully focused on rugby, only checking his phone each evening to see if any messages from his family have arrived. His mum makes sure to check in every day, and it seems like she’s been making the girls do the same from the tone of their texts. Andy sent a _well done_ after the victory over South Africa, but nothing else. He can’t pretend he’s not grateful for it.

Georgie’s been the most consistent source of messages in the last two weeks. She must be angling for more than another hook-up, Owen decides, because it’s a lot of effort to keep talking when he’s not even in the country. Despite her confession of never having watched rugby before, she’s sent encouraging comments during and after each game.

He’s had a couple of short-lived relationships before but none of those girls put as much time and effort into it as Georgie, so he didn’t bother reciprocating. Now, though, he finds himself regularly texting her before bed and in another free moments. She wants to meet up when he arrives back in England, and he can’t think of a good reason to say no.

Before that can happen, there’s the small matter of the semi. It’s another four tries from England and a shedload of penalties, and the French just don’t seem ale to get it together for more than three phases at a time.

Even though they’ve got it in the bag when Ben Ransom scores in the fifty-sixth minute, the boys keep pushing until Alex touches down in the corner five minutes into overtime. It’s a nice 33-18 win, and they all shower quickly to get back out into the stands to watch the New Zealand-Australia game. Whoever takes the victory will be their opponent in the final on Sunday.

It’s not much of a contest, in the end. Australia keep themselves in it for half an hour, and then the Kiwis run away with it. Anscombe’s almost flawless kicking from the tee – and his try – contributes twenty-two of his team’s thirty-seven points, and Owen knows he’s got a challenge on his hands to match that.

It’s at times like this that he wishes he had a steady backup at flyhalf – someone like George, he realises. The coaches had never really settled on another permanent replacement when George had announced his switch to league – it’s been like a revolving door of inexperienced eighteen-year-olds, and Owen never feels like he can be subbed off safely.

He’d play through discomfort and injury anyway, but even more so when the team’s success is at stake. Nothing against Marcus and Danny and Finn and Callum – they just don’t have it, not in an international setting.

George would have been great here, he thinks on the coach back to the hotel. Quick summer rugby suits his style of play. He’d be a match for Anscombe any day of the week, and in the running for the IRB Junior Player of the Year award.

More than that, Owen could trust him to finish off a match without nearly throwing away a twenty-point lead. (No hard feelings against Marcus, but there was definitely a reason why that was his last appearance of the Six Nations.)

He’s distracted by the buzzing of his phone against his leg, and he digs it out of his pocket.

_That win was hot_ , Georgie’s texted. _Up for a call later? x_

Owen’s halfway through typing out a message about the pros and cons of summer rugby when he realises that that’s not what she means. Or, at least…

No, he decides, that’s definitely not what she means. _I’ll have to ask my roommate,_ he sends back. Chris would probably be fine with clearing out for a while, especially given Owen did the same for him.

_Crossing my fingers!!!_ she replies, and then, _not touching anywhere though, promise ;)_

Owen locks his phone on instinct, looking round to see if anyone could have read the message. It would be just his luck to have Jamie leaning over again, nosy bastard, or Alex or someone. Luckily, they all seem preoccupied. He’s got away with it – for now.

_Glad to hear it_ , he sends. _Delayed gratification is a good thing._

_How are you so sexy even when you talk like a teacher??_

_NOT going there_ , Owen responds immediately, and turns his phone off. Clear communication is important, and that’s a line he’s not crossing.

He shudders. Definitely not.

*

Chris leaves the room with a wink, and Owen locks himself in the bathroom just in case. It’s an awkward enough situation without his roommate coming back too soon and finding him in some state of undress.

Once he stops stressing about what could happen and gets into it, it’s good. He’s happy Georgie was forward enough to suggest it; there’s no way he can keep fixating on Anscombe’s kicking stance and the furrow between his eyebrows deep enough to see from the stands when he’s got Georgie in front of him – at least, through a screen.

They talk quietly for a bit afterwards. She updates him on how the last fortnight has been for her while he cleans up and puts his pyjamas on. “I’d like to see you again,” she says firmly, and Owen nods reflexively. “When do you get back?”

“Final’s on Sunday,” he says, tucking his dirty socks into the bag to be washed. “We have two days of recovery after that, so – Thursday would work for me? I’m up in St Albans, but I can drive into London if that’s easier for you.”

They’ve never explicitly said where each of them lives, and Owen’s not quite sure he wants to invite her onto his home turf yet. He’s still freeloading off Jamie, after all, and it would be rude to bring someone round without asking.

“That would be nice,” she says softly down the phone. “Were you thinking of anywhere specific?”

Owen hums. He wasn’t, actually, but he guesses he should take the initiative for once. “Hampstead Heath? Weather’s supposed to be good next week, and we could walk up the hill and see the skyline.”

“Sounds lovely. Afternoon? Or we could take a picnic?”

“I’d have to check if I’ve got anything on, but should be fine,” he says. He doesn’t want to commit to this too soon; there’s a lot of stuff that could happen between today and next Thursday. He could break a bone in the final – they could lose the final. Anything could go wrong.

“Alright,” Georgie says. “I’ll see you then. Sleep well, and good luck for the weekend if we don’t talk against before then.”

He thanks her, tells her the same thing, and puts his phone on to charge before crawling into bed. Not for the first time, he wonders how his parents managed, juggling rugby and dating and his mum’s proper job all around a tiny – well, quite fat, really – baby.

His eyes snap open. Shit, it really shows how long he’s been out of the house that he’s forgotten that his baby brother’s due to be born in the next few weeks. His mum had looked pretty pregnant the last time he’d seen her a couple of weeks ago but – wow. He’s secretly pleased to be avoiding all the apparent messiness and discomfort of the last push of pregnancy.

Still, even though he’s had months to get used to the idea, the very thought of a younger sibling so much younger than him and his sisters makes him uncomfortable, wriggling around a little like that could scrape the feeling off his skin.

They’re not supposed to be having more children. Yes, they’re not exactly old, but – Owen’s meant to be the one doing that sort of thing now, if he’s following the family tradition. That makes his skin crawl too, but – if he thinks about it seriously – he’d rather it be him than his parents. Or even his sisters, at a stretch: at least then he’d have a normal age gap between a nephew and an uncle, not two brothers.

He presses his face into the pillow and groans. Rugby had pushed out all thoughts of his brother’s impending arrival, and then Georgie had got rid of the rugby worries, and now… It’s all coming flooding back in.

It’s not like he can rationalise it as a short term struggle that will be over soon. The Junior World Championship, sure – that’ll be done in less than a week. The baby, though, will be around for the rest of his life, a constant reminder of family tradition and expectations and the conflict he has with them and Andy in particular.

It’s not the kid’s fault. If it’s anyone’s, it’s Owen’s, for not being able to man up and get over himself. It’s just another addition to the Farrell clan, and he’s not going to be at the Harpenden house much anyway, regardless of how many new siblings his parents produce.

He forces his heart rate to slow. Long, deep breaths move into his lungs and hard exhales move out. Everything’s going to be fine. Elliot and Jamie will help, and Georgie, and George (but only if it gets really bad). But it won’t be really bad. It will be fine.

With the strength of his assertions clanging around the inside of his head, he somehow manages to fall asleep. There’s nothing he can do to change the situation. Everything is going to be fine.

*

They lose. 22-33.

Three tries apiece, and Owen knows – everyone knows, he can see it in their eyes – that the difference was in the kicking.

Anscombe had a 100% success rate. Owen had a measly 50%.

It wouldn’t have been able to make up the difference, but maybe it would have spurred the team on, given them the push they needed to keep Barrett from scoring.

The only thing he can bring himself to be happy about is that he’s not captain. Alex chokes through a speech thanking them for their efforts, and then Fletch says pretty much the same thing with a lot more composure.

Owen stares at the floor. Two hours ago, this room was filled with hope and fire. Now, someone’s poured water on their bonfire and they’re struggling to breathe.

Some of the boys seem okay. The younger ones, who know they have more chances, look positive. They’re ready to take it on the chin as a learning experience.

It’s the older lads – Owen included – who are aging out of U20s and have no guarantee of making the Saxons or the full England squad. Blank faces and wet eyes surround him, nobody moving.

He wants to forget this whole day. As he’d promised himself, everything was fine, until it wasn’t. He had stared at Anscombe every time he kicked, trying to figure out what he was doing that made him so much more accurate than Owen. It wasn’t in the angle he squatted, or the intense concentration as he scrutinised the posts.

It was something intangible, and that’s what Owen hates most. He likes numbers – reps completed, percentage success rate, penalties lost versus penalties won. There’s no way of quantifying confidence, and no concrete way of working on it.

He thought he had confidence, from the momentum carried over from the Prem win and into the tournament. Watching Anscombe nail kick after kick, though, he started to doubt.

He rubs his hand over his face and stands up. He needs to shower. Concrete actions – shower, eat, sleep. Wake up in the morning, analyse the million things that went wrong, get back to work.

_Hope baby not born_ , he thinks humourlessly. That’s another thing he doesn’t need on his plate right now.

*

The post-match dinner is mercifully brief, the All Blacks wanting to leave to celebrate and the English wanting to leave to mourn.

His mum and Georgie have sent him consolatory messages, but nothing’s going to help save a lot of work. Owen switches off the light once Chris is in bed.

Sleep, wake up in the morning, analyse, work. No baby brother and no date – not yet. He has to work.

*

The coaches don’t seem much inclined to work out what went wrong. They load the team onto a bus and turn them loose in nearby Padua. It’s a pretty enough city, but Owen wants to talk about the loss more than he wants to buy overpriced gelato.

Someone’s uploaded highlights – lowlights, from Owen’s perspective – of the match to YouTube already, so he breaks off from his group and finds himself a café in which to watch the video. He’d prefer the full match, but beggars can’t be choosers.

He picks through a few cannoli, the fried pastry tasting like dust in his mouth. On his phone screen, he can see the team’s heads starting to drop. They’re fired up for the second half, to be sure, but some of the guys don’t look like they have anything more to give, and they know it.

It’s at times like these that Owen wishes he were a bit more – interesting is true enough, but not for this situation. He wants to be the one, or one of the several, who can lead the team with inspirational speeches and act as a catalyst to jolt them back into action.

He’s a team player, prides himself on it, but sometimes an individual needs to come forward and offer themselves up for the good of the team. He’d left that role to Alex as captain, but maybe he shouldn’t have. They’re a team. No man is an island, and all that.

He licks the last bits of cream from his fingers, wipes them on a napkin. The video’s finished, cutting off just before the final whistle, and he’s relieved. Seeing their disappointing performance is one thing; seeing the realisation hit the faces of twenty-two of his closest friends is another.

Heading out into the afternoon sunshine with a mumbled _grazie_ to the waiter, he straightens his back. Maybe he’s been going about this all wrong.

He’s been waiting for others to tell him when he has authority, instead of assuming it himself. He doesn’t want to undermine Alex, or whoever is captain, but he needs to take more responsibility and live up to the expectations.

It’s not enough to leave the captain with the burden. He has to support them more. If it takes pretending he’s vice-captain for it to make any difference, then he’s willing to try.

A church bell booms out from above him, tolling three times and sending a flock of pigeons swirling away. They’re due back at the coach in fifteen minutes on the other side of town, and he’s not entirely sure where he is.

Pulling up a map on his phone, he sets off at a jog. It’ll be good to burn off all the calories from the cannoli, if nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you hadn't watched this after last week's video: [Owen Farrell's JWC Diary: Part II](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sHYmjSzlStQ).
> 
> I'd love to hear what you thought about this, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


	16. Chapter 16

Arriving home again is oddly deflating. The Premiership win is a distant memory, and only the defeat to the All Blacks remains in Owen’s mind. Saracens specifically contacted him, Jamie, and Ben to tell them not to even think about doing any training for the next week. As a result, he’s sat on his arse for half a day and is already bored stiff.

Then, like some kind of divine intervention, Georgie texts him. _still okay for tomorrow? understandable if not x_

He grins. A picnic would hit the spot nicely right now – especially if it just happened to involve a brisk walk up a hill. _Absolutely :D Meet at the south end at one?_

_looking forward to it – can I bring some scones I made? dw if it breaks the diet plan, I can always fob them off on my flatmates_

_Fine by me, sort of on holiday now!_

“You’re looking chipper,” Jamie remarks from where he’s texting on the other sofa. “Good news?”

Owen grins. “Yeah – me and Georgie have got a date tomorrow.”

Jamie raises his eyebrows. “You taking her somewhere nice? Got to be nice to the ladies, mate.”

He scoffs. “Like you’d know – I’ve never seen you with a girl! But yeah, we’re having a picnic on Hampstead Heath. Should be good.”

“Whatever,” Jamie says, turning his attention back to his own phone. “Just try not to talk about rugby the whole time, yeah? Most people tend to find that a bit boring.”

He doesn’t deem it worthy of a response. Besides, Georgie’s replied, distracting him.

_it’s alright for some! my holiday’s going to miss the heatwave at this rate >:-(_

_Okay, you try being covered in mud all winter and we’ll see which you prefer x_

_haha, very funny_

_see you tomorrow baby x_

_Can’t wait x_

Ignoring Jamie, he gets up and wanders through to the kitchen. The fridge has got a fair amount of stuff in it, though he wouldn’t describe most of it as suitable for a picnic. Chicken breast and pasta isn’t the most exciting, especially cold.

Maybe he should run down to the shop and get something better? Not running, of course, but moving relatively swiftly. It’s his turn to cook tonight, so he needs to be back in time before Jamie starts being grumpy with him.

He’s staring into the vegetable drawer, mulling over his options, when Jamie yells through from the living room. “Faz, your phone’s going off! It’s your dad!”

He slams the fridge door shut. Andy would only be calling if it was serious, he’s sure. A hundred different disasters flash through his mind, but the only plausible one, he hopes to God, is about the baby. The due date’s in a couple of days; it would make sense.

Owen snatches up his phone from the sofa with a quick nod to Jamie, and retreats back to the kitchen. If it’s bad news, he doesn’t want his friend to witness his immediate reaction.

He answers the call. “Owen,” his dad says straight away. “Everything’s fine, we just thought we should let you know – your mum’s gone into labour.”

“Okay,” he says. “Do you need – where are you? Is she going to hospital?” He’s pacing now, not knowing what to do with the excess energy.

Andy chuckles, and it pisses Owen off. He’s only trying to be helpful. “You really did miss a few biology lessons, didn’t you?” Andy says. “It’s only the first stage, so we’re still at home. In a couple of hours, we’ll probably be ready to go, but everything’s good for the moment.”

“Do you want me to pick up the girls?” Owen asks. It’s part of his new ethos, offering to help before being asked. “I’m sure Jamie won’t mind having them over for the night, or however long it takes.”

“That would be helpful, thanks,” Andy says, sounding surprised. “She’s not at the screaming stage yet, but we wouldn’t want to put them off having kids, eh?”

Owen wrinkles his nose. That wasn’t why he was offering, and he hopes his sisters will realise that. “I can come over at seven,” he says. “It’s my night making tea, but after that is fine.”

“Alright,” Andy says. “Thanks, son. You’re turning into a proper young man.”

Owen hangs up. He’s not sure he wants to be Andy’s idea of a _proper young man_ , whatever that might entail. He does want to see his mum, though, and make sure she’s okay. They haven’t seen each other in a while, and he wants to wish her luck. From the little he does remember from the excruciating biology and PSHE lessons, she should be fine because it’s her fourth baby – but still.

He goes back through to the living room. “Everything okay?” Jamie asks, putting his phone down.

Owen sits on the sofa, still a little shell-shocked. “Mum’s gone into labour,” he says mechanically. “Is it okay if the girls stay here for the night?”

Jamie sits up, pats his shoulder reassuringly. “Mate, that’s fine. And I’m sure everything will be fine, yeah? If nothing else, your mum’s done this before. Practise makes perfect, and Farrells are always perfect.”

Owen coughs out a laugh and leans into Jamie’s hand. “Thanks, Jinx. I just – yeah. It’s a little scary. Obviously I don’t remember when the girls were born, and there’s so much that could go wrong.”

Jamie tsks at him. “We’re in 2011, mate, not 1911. Doctors and midwives and people are good at this stuff now, and hygiene actually, like, exists.” Sensing he’s not doing much to help, he changes tack. “If you want to drive over and get them, I’m fine doing dinner. It won’t be much, but I want to help.”

He shakes his head. “It’s fine. I’ve already told Andy that I’ll come over around seven, and you’re doing us all a massive favour anyway.”

Jamie slaps him on the back and stands up. “Alright, mate, it’s your call. And – have you told Georgie yet? Would be good for her to know, if you have to back out on your date.”

“No,” Owen says. “I’ll – yeah, I’ll get on that.” Then Jamie’s leaving the room, leaving him to his thoughts. He unlocks his phone and sends her a text explaining the situation.

 _oh wow!!_ She sends back after a minute. _that’s so cool – absolutely fine, I completely understand. sending all my love x_

_Thanks x_

_Probably won’t happen that fast, but still x_

_labour works in mysterious ways_ , she sends back, and Owen decides to take her word for it. She’s the one who’s more likely to experience it and therefore know about it, after all.

He makes dinner somewhat robotically. It’s edible if nothing else, and Jamie charitably says nothing about the rather extreme caramelisation of the bacon. They both know exactly what’s on Owen’s mind.

“Text me when you get there, alright?” Jamie says as Owen’s putting on his shoes to leave. “Otherwise I’m calling your – Andy to check you haven’t crashed on the way because you’re so nervous.”

“Calm down, mother hen,” Owen says. His hands might be shaking slightly as he does up his laces, but that’s his business.

Right now, he’s more anxious about how Jamie – curse his observational skills – seems to have picked up on his tendency to call Andy by his first name, not anything more normal. He knows his reasons, but it’s not really a conversation he wants to have. “I’ll text when I get there, and when we’re leaving.”

“Okay,” Jamie says, holding the door open for him. “Safe drive, mate – and tell your mum good luck from me, or whatever you’re meant to say to pregnant people.” Owen nods, accepts the squeeze of his shoulder. Stepping out of the front door, he feels strangely like he’s going out into a war zone.

*

When he pulls up outside the house in Harpenden, everything seems oddly quiet. He doesn’t know what he was expecting – some kind of commotion worthy of the occasion, at the very least, but it’s all just very… Normal, would be the best word for it.

It’s normal too in that he’s not part of the picture – hasn’t been home in a few weeks, and hasn’t lived there for months. Some people might think it sad that he’s more of a visitor than an inhabitant of his family home, but he finds he prefers it. He’s happy where he is.

After texting Jamie, he rings the front doorbell before letting himself in. In his strange no man’s land relationship with the house, it would be equally strange to wait outside and to barge right in.

He sticks his head into the lounge, but there’s no one there. He tries the kitchen – same emptiness, although dirty dishes on the side betray some form of life.

Owen walks up the stairs with trepidation. His parents’ room is at the other end of the landing, so he’ll be able to find the girls before he has to confront whatever’s going on with his mum and Andy.

He raps on Elleshia’s door first, then Gracie’s. They swing open simultaneously, both sides of the corridor. “Alright?” he asks quietly, not wanting to disturb the library-esque atmosphere. Also, they’re all teenagers – they don’t need dramatics.

“Yeah,” Gracie says, holding up a rucksack. “Ready to go.” Elleshia nods in agreement.

“Have you told them-” he nods towards the closed door at the end of the hall- “you’re ready?” They roll their eyes at him in unison, and he recognises the look. It’s been a while, but he knows a ‘you’re the oldest, you do it’ look when he sees one.

“Fine,” he sighs, and they grin fiercely at him. He’s missed them, he realises as he sets off towards the master bedroom. They might be annoying little shits at times, and they do have the handicap of being teenage girls, but they’re alright really.

He knocks on the door hesitantly. He can’t hear anything coming from inside, but he waits an extra few seconds before opening it anyway. It can’t hurt to be careful.

“Hey, uh,” he says, before he stalls. For some reason, he’d imagined that the curtains would be closed and there would be a sombre atmosphere. Instead, his mum’s reading a book in her pyjamas while Andy’s staring out the window. Aside from the occasional sharp intake of breath from his mum, he’d barely be able to tell that anything is off.

Andy turns to face him, and he smiles. “Evening, son,” he says, and Owen fights back a shiver. What’s this sudden obsession with emphasising their relationship, almost like he’s owning him? He hates it.

“Hi,” he gets out. “I just wanted to – the girls are ready to go, if that’s okay?”

His mum smiles at him, the same slight apprehension in her expression as must be written on all their faces. “That’s great, love. Thank you so much for doing this.” She grunts softly, closing her eyes for a second, and then musters a soft smile once more. “Give me a hug?”

He nods, going fully into the room for the first time in ages. He leans down, carefully wraps his arms around her shoulders. He’s scared to go lower – what if he triggers something? “Good luck,” he murmurs into her ear. “Jamie says that too.”

She laughs slightly, and it makes him smile. “You’re sweet boys,” she says. “Now, look after the girls for me, okay? Remember they have to be at school in the morning, so don’t let them stay up too late.”

He nods, standing up again. Somehow he’d forgotten that it wasn’t holiday time for everyone; he’s going to have to work out the route from Jamie’s house to their school, because it’s definitely too far to make them walk. “Of course.”

“Good lad,” Andy says, eyes flicking towards the door. Owen moves away from the bed – he can take a hint. “I’ll call if anything changes.”

Owen nods, makes sure to smile encouragingly at his mum. “I’ll see you soon,” he says softly.

“Couple of days at most,” she promises. “Now, can you send the girls in before you leave? They’re just as worried as you, even if none of you show it.” He flushes and nods.

Elleshia and Gracie don’t take long visiting their mum, which makes sense once Owen thinks about it. They’ve been around for the whole of the pregnancy and they probably pay attention at school, so they know more of what’s happening than him.

“Ready to go?” he asks, once they’re all strapped in to the car. “Got your school stuff and everything?” They roll their eyes again, and he’s got a feeling that this is going to be a feature of the next few days. “Okay, fine. I just need to text Jamie, and then we’re good to go.”

“You sound like dad,” Gracie complains from the back seat. “He never just goes somewhere. There’s always got to be a massive fuss made about it.”

“Yes,” Owen says, fighting the urge to snap at her, “but Jamie’s worried about me driving because I’m stressed, alright? He’s being a good mate, that’s all.”

He definitely hears his younger sister whisper _gay_ as he’s setting off, but he forces himself to stay calm. They’re just in that stage of everything uncool being called gay, that’s all, he tells himself. They’re barely teenagers; they don’t know any better. Anyway, he’s not gay. He has a date with a girl tomorrow.

They make it home without any incidents, and Owen breathes a sigh of relief as he turns the engine off on the drive. He’s ready to get rid of his sisters already – they can go and sit in their room and be grateful that Jamie’s house has a spare bedroom instead of talking, for all he cares.

“You’re welcome,” he says pointedly, opening the door.

“Thanks,” Elleshia mutters, and Gracie echoes her. No wonder Andy was so keen to accept his offer, if this is what they’re like all the time.

He’s about to unlock the door when Jamie opens it from inside. “Hey, mate,” he says, pulling Owen into a quick hug. “You two doing alright?” he asks Owen’s sisters. They’ve met a few times before, he knows, so the short answers Jamie receives aren’t much of a surprise.

“You two are in the spare room,” he tells them once they’re all inside. “Go up the stairs, turn right, and it’s the door on the end.”

“And we’re all sharing one bathroom,” Jamie adds cheerfully. “Sorry about that, but it’s what you get on a beefed-up academy contract.”

The girls both look mournful, and Owen can’t help laughing. “You can go upstairs and do whatever, I don’t care. Just make sure you’re in bed by – midnight? Is that normal?” he asks Jamie, who shrugs. “Let’s say midnight,” he decides. “School in the morning, and school is important, kids.”

His sisters huff off up the stairs, and Jamie whistles. “Mate, you are so mean to them! If my brother had said that to me, I’d have socked him one in the stomach.”

Owen grins. “Yeah, but you were only two years younger. Those two are way younger – and smaller. They can’t do anything about it. I’m in loco parentis, you know?”

He tries to put Gracie’s comment from earlier out of his mind and focus on his date tomorrow afternoon, but he can’t be very successful because Jamie picks up on it in about ten minutes.

“You okay, mate?” he asks. “Your face’s gone all squinty.” He screws up his face in what must be intended to be an approximation of Owen’s own expression.

He shrugs. “There was just this thing one of them said earlier, on the way over. It’s nothing, really – I don’t know why it’s bothering me.”

Jamie sits down next to him on the sofa, shuffles up close until their sides are touching. “It’s not nothing. If it was nothing, you’d look all frowny like usual. This is more…” He pauses. “I want to say jittery, like butterflies in your stomach.”

Owen looks down at his hands, white-knuckled and tense. “It’s such a small thing, though. I shouldn’t be this affected by it.”

“Yes, but there is something, and you can’t control how you react,” Jamie says softly. “This isn’t going two points down with five minutes left in the match, mate. There’s something bugging you, or making you stressed, and you don’t always have to attack your problems head on. You can talk to me, honestly.”

He kicks his feet a little, resting one foot on top of the other and then swapping them over. There’s any number of things he could say – rugby, Andy, his mum being in labour, being in charge of his sisters. He could mention almost anything and Jamie would believe it, but he finds himself wanting to tell the truth.

“In the car earlier,” he murmurs, so quiet Jamie has to move his head closer to hear, “I was saying something about how I needed to text you to say we were setting off, and Gracie said…” He trails off. “She said – she said that it was – fucking hell, why is this so hard?” he bursts out.

Jamie pats his arm soothingly. “It’s okay, mate. You don’t have to say it if you don’t want to. She said something that hurt you, and now you’re all messed up about it.”

Owen nods, but he knows Jamie doesn’t really understand. He’s got to push through this, like he’s pushed through any number of things in the past.

“She said it was gay, that I was texting you,” he says in a tiny voice. Jamie, to his credit, stays pressed up against him, a solid presence at his side. “I know that’s, like, a stupid thing kids say when they’re pissed off, but it’s not fair.”

Jamie nudges their knees together, encouraging him to keep talking. “I’m not gay, so it’s not my thing to be annoyed about. But then I think about George and Elliot, and the shit they must have heard, and I’m fucked off because that’s my little sister saying something that could hurt my mates. Does that make sense?”

“It makes total sense,” Jamie says, “and it makes you a great friend. You can be angry on their behalf, and that’s fine too.” He slings an arm around Owen’s shoulders and pulls him into his chest. “Thank you for telling me, though. It can’t have been easy.”

Owen shakes his head, frustrated with himself. “Yeah, but,” he starts, not knowing where he’s going, “it’s not my place to be upset, surely? I should be talking to her about it, not in here complaining to you.”

Jamie sighs. Owen can feel the vibration of his friend’s voice against his face. “Look, mate, it’s your call if you feel comfortable doing that. It would be great if you did, don’t get me wrong, but-“

He breaks off. “I’m just worried about you, alright? I didn’t want to bring it up, but all that stuff with Andy and Fordy a couple of years ago was absolutely fucked up. If you were anyone else, I’d tell you to go to the player welfare advisor, but it’s you, so I didn’t.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Owen asks. He doesn’t know what Jamie’s trying to insinuate, but it can’t be positive.

“Just that you’re too stubborn for your own good sometimes, that’s all,” Jamie says quickly. “Now, don’t distract me. Andy was a complete shithead to both of you, and you still have to interact with him most days. The way you’re reacting to this, I’d say it’s still messing with your head.”

Owen wants to hide his face and cry. Jamie’s being so reasonable about it, and he doesn’t deserve this sympathy. He’s just being oversensitive.

“I’m okay,” he says thickly. “I promise. Really,” he adds in answer to Jamie’s incredulous look. “Maybe we can talk about it some more, and Andy too, but not right now.”

“Not when we’re responsible for your sisters, got it,” Jamie says, and Owen’s grateful for his understanding. “Want to help me make a cake? It’ll distract you, and I bet your mum will love it.”

Owen smiles through the haze of tears, and Jamie hauls him up off the sofa. “Come on, Faz. Tell me all the secrets – does she like chocolate? Is she a Victoria sponge kind of lady? I need something to work with!”

They settle on a simple Victoria sponge with royal icing, once Jamie’s roundly dismissed Owen’s idea to put in blue food colouring. “None of those gender norms in this household, thank you very much,” he says, getting the sugar down from the top shelf. “If you don’t have any sensible ideas, you can start weighing the butter.”

Jamie was right – the cake is a good distraction. Gracie comes down about ten minutes in to ask them to be quiet; their howling laughter is apparently disrupting her trying to do her homework. Owen apologises, but doesn’t bother changing his behaviour. He’s still annoyed about earlier.

Andy texts at ten, just a short message to say that everything’s going fine and his mum’s going to try and sleep for a bit while the contractions aren’t too bad. Owen sends back a terse _okay_. He’s glad it’s going as expected, but he doesn’t want to encourage communication. it’s harder to get out of something once you’ve committed than to never be involved in the first place, he’s learnt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come and say hi on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com)!


	17. Chapter 17

Once he’s dropped off the girls at school, Owen pops to the shops to get some stuff for the picnic. Mini pork pies are always a good option, and he can chop up some of the carrots and cucumber they already have at home for some vegetable sticks.

He swings the shopping basket against his leg. He hasn’t been on a picnic in ages, and none of the summer snack range looks particularly healthy. The basket looks woefully empty, with a single packet of four small pork pies in, so he grabs a tub of flapjacks and calls it a day. Georgie will surely have brought some suitable stuff, and he can always fill up on water if necessary.

He eats lunch with Jamie, making sure to eat a smaller portion of pasta than usual. Then, he’s plugging in the address of the carpark and setting off.

It’s been a while since his last proper date, and butterflies are whirling in his stomach. He and Georgie are already fairly well acquainted, at least in certain ways, but there’s something very different about a drunken hook-up and texting across international borders than meeting up in a park solely to talk and get to know each other better.

Sometimes – not often, but more and more frequently these days – Owen wishes he was a bit more interesting, or had more diverse interests. He’s a one trick pony, for all intents and purposes. If someone doesn’t like rugby union, then he can try and talk about rugby league or training and diet plans, but he doesn’t feel like there’s much else.

He’d be good on the first round of Mastermind and that’s about it.

He parks with five minutes to spare. He checks his phone – no new messages from Andy – and texts Jamie that he’s arrived safely, then gets out the car and goes to wait by the entrance.

Owen loiters for six minutes, and then he’s scanning the area and checking his phone. They’d agreed to meet at one, and it’s now 1:02. Georgie might be running a bit late, or not found the right entrance. She’d texted last night and made no mention of not being able to come, so she’s just behind schedule, that’s all.

The numbers on his phone screen tick over to 1:03. She can’t have stood him up, surely. They were getting on fine, and she’d seemed excited-

“Thanks for waiting!” Georgie calls from a few metres away, and Owen’s anxiety melts away. “Traffic was worse than I was expecting through Camden.”

She walks up to him, and he instinctively leans in to kiss her cheek. “You look lovely,” he says honestly, and she does. Her blonde hair and blue eyes are complemented by her sky-blue and white striped dress, and she has a tan leather bag slung over her shoulder. He had been comfortable in his shorts and T-shirt before, but now it’s a bit awkward. Should he have dressed up more, even though it’s just a picnic in the park?

“You too,” she says, reaching up to brush her fingers over a fading cut on his neck. “Better than I was expecting, if I’m honest – I thought you athlete types were meant to waste away with misery after big losses, but you look great.”

Owen smiles, takes her hand in his. “I got over the misery stage pretty quickly this time. Probably helped having such a good distraction.” She laughs, and he relaxes. He can do this.

“How’s your mum doing?” she asks as they wander along the path leading up Parliament Hill. “It must be exciting – and nerve-wracking, I guess.”

He chews at his lip. “Yeah. She’s fine at the moment. Still in the first stage of labour, is what Andy says, so it’ll probably be a while longer.”

She squeezes at his hand. “I’m sure it will be fine. But – Andy? Is he your stepdad?”

Owen huffs out a laugh despite himself. “Nah, he’s my dad. I just don’t call him that because… Well, I just don’t.”

If he’s not ready to talk about it with Jamie, one of his closest friends for the last four years, then he’s definitely not going to share with a girl he’s sort of maybe dating, no matter how good the sex is.

They ramble up to the top of the hill, past the athletics track, talking easily. It turns out that Georgie has just finished her second year uni exams, so she has a lot more free time on her hands alongside her part-time job. She tells him about what she’s been doing with her friends while he was in Italy, and in return he shares a few of the more appropriate stories from camp.

“I brought a picnic blanket, if you want,” Georgie says, once they halt at the top. “Thought it might come in handy.”

Owen nods, gestures at the expanse of grass in front of them. “Wherever you want is good – the view’s nice from here.”

Georgie put down the blanket and starts arranging the contents of her bag on it. She’s brought sausage rolls, and crisps, and salad, and some dips, and a whole host of other things which he can’t believe all fitted in that small bag.

He puts his own offerings next to hers, and stretches out on the blanket. It’s a warm June day, not a cloud in the sky. Despite the beautiful weather, the park isn’t very busy because it’s a weekday. It’s nice; peaceful.

Georgie’s a comfortable companion too. She might not be as immersed in rugby as he is, but she’s clearly made an effort for him over the last few weeks and he can appreciate that. He’s not sure yet what the equivalent is for her, other than reading up on her modules for the third year of her course. He’ll find out, though – proactivity is the name of the game now, after all.

They eat their way through all the food, to Owen’s surprise. He’d really intended to limit his consumption, but Georgie’s matching him plate for plate and he doesn’t want to make her feel bad.

After they’ve finished, he lies down on the blanket and she rests her head on his outstretched arm. “It’s beautiful up here,” she says quietly. “I don’t spend much time just sitting and looking at London, so it’s been really nice.”

He nods, knowing she’ll feel the movement where she’s lying on him. “I like the skyline,” he offers. “St Paul’s, and Canary Wharf, and the London Eye all mixed up together. It’s nice.”

“Did you go to the London Eye when you moved down here?” Georgie asks, drawing patterns against his ribcage with her fingers. “It’s so cool, the view – I think my parents first took me when I was ten.”

“No, we didn’t,” Owen says. “Andy thought it was more important we go to Twickenham. I’ve seen the stuff round there, but most weekends we’re too busy to go and do that kind of thing.” He’s not bitter. He doesn’t feel like he’s missed out – it’s just a fact of life, with their jobs.

Georgie props herself up on one elbow, gazing down at him. The wind is ruffling her hair slightly, and he can smell her perfume. “Well, maybe we can go for our next date – make a day of it? We could go on the London Eye, and round Trafalgar Square and the West End and all those places.”

He leans up to kiss her, touched by the thoughtfulness. “Sounds great. I don’t know when I’ll be free exactly, what with the baby, but I’d love to.”

She kisses him back. “And if you’ve got a lot of time to spare – the lease for my house for next year starts in a couple of weeks, and it’s near there, so you could stay the night?”

“Yeah,” he says, huskier now. “That’d be brilliant.”

Georgie pecks him on the cheek, then sits up. “Perfect. I get you won’t know for a bit when you’re free for that long, but text me when you do, okay? None of my housemates are planning on moving in this early, but I’d want to give them a heads up first.”

He mirrors her, sitting up and packing away his few boxes into his backpack. “That’s fine. I know my mate Jamie would want a couple of days’ notice that he’s being replaced as the evening entertainment.”

“He plays with you, doesn’t he?” she asks. Somehow she’s tided up all of her stuff in the time it’s taken him to stash three pots. “I think I remember seeing him on TV.”

Owen nods, grinning. “Yeah. He’s a big guy – shorter than me, but big. I can see why you’d remember him.”

“Got any other eligible colleagues you can introduce to my friends?” she asks with a twinkle in her eye. “I’m sure none of them would mind dating a hunky rugby player.”

Owen snorts. “Firstly, I would never describe Jamie as _hunky_. Second, I’m pretty sure he’s dating someone and just isn’t telling me. And thirdly – most of my teammates are married, or too old for girls our age.”

Georgie sighs, shaking her head in amusement. “What a shame. They’ll all have to be jealous of me then.”

As they walk back down the hill, hand in hand, Owen finds himself smiling properly for the first time in a while. It feels good to be wanted, to be considered an object of desire and worth knowing. His rugby reputation is based on his on-pitch skills, and his off-pitch personality seems like an afterthought for most people.

He likes Georgie, and he likes how she makes him feel. More importantly – she seems to like him too.

*

His baby brother is born early the next day. Owen wakes to his phone buzzing on the bedside table at five in the morning. It’s Andy calling, so he knows what it’s going to be about.

“Hello?” he says through a yawn. “Is everything okay?” He’s got to keep his voice down – everyone else in the house is lucky enough to still be sleeping, and he’s not going to deprive them of that luxury.

“More than,” Andy says, and he sounds exhausted. “Your brother’s been born. He’s a big lad, so they’re both sleeping now.”

“Congratulations,” Owen says. He rolls onto his back, stares at the ceiling. The first rays of morning light are creeping around his curtains, and he knows he’s not going back to sleep after this. “Have you named him yet?”

“Yep,” Andy answers. He’s the one yawning now. “He’s called Gabriel. Gabriel David Farrell, after your grandad.”

“Lovely.” The words are sticking in Owen’s throat. He has a new sibling, who’s almost two decades younger than him. He’s closer to Andy’s age than Gabriel’s, and isn’t that a bit strange? “Do you want us to come visit, or are you all too tired?”

Andy yawns again. _Power of suggestion_ , Owen thinks smugly. “Maybe this evening, once we’ve had a rest and done the rest of the admin. You could bring the girls after tea, when they’ve finished school.”

Owen nods. “Alright then. See you soon, and I hope he stays asleep for you.” Andy grumbles a response and hangs up. Another advantage of not being at home anymore – he won’t have to put up with the baby’s screaming all the time.

He lets himself have another five minutes in bed, then drags himself up. If he goes for a run now, he can justify a nap in the afternoon and avoid the worst part of the heatwave. Breakfast, run, shower, break the news. It’s easy and straightforward – just how he likes things to be.

He leaves a scribbled note on the kitchen table explaining where he’s gone, just in case the three sleeping beauties decide to wake up before seven. It’s unlikely, but it’s good to be prepared.

The morning air is pleasantly cool on his face after the scorching temperatures of the last few days, and the back roads are deserted. He runs his usual loop, then pushes to do it again. He’s going to need a solid base of fitness if he wants to be the starting flyhalf at Sarries and have a shot at England.

However many miles later – he doesn’t need to remember, it all goes straight in his training log anyway – he staggers back through the door. Even with the cool breeze helping him on his way, he’s still the colour of a tomato. He wipes the sweat off his forehead and goes up to his room.

Since he’s been gone, Andy’s sent an email through with a few pictures of Gabriel and Colleen. His mum looks happy if tired, and the baby is scrunched up like wrapping paper a few days after Christmas. He types back _good to see you’re all well._ It’s too impersonal – like he’s discussing the health of an elderly and distant relative, not his mum and brother.

Then Jamie’s cake comes to mind, and he grins. That should do the trick. _We made a cake to celebrate_ , he adds. _Can we bring it to the hospital, or should it wait until you get home?_ He sends the reply with a sense of smug satisfaction. What could have been an awkward email opening him up to a bollocking is now depicting him as the image of a dutiful, caring son. He needs to remember to thank Jamie for that one.

By the time he’s showered and dressed, everyone else has woken up. When he walks into the kitchen, is sisters both look as grumpy as two teenagers faced with school, while Jamie is his usual ebullient self.

“Any news?” Jamie says, looking up from his cereal and ending the silence. “I didn’t think you’d be up that early of your own accord, but you can never tell with you.”

Owen lets a grin break out on his face. Sue him, it’s kind of cool to have a new sibling, especially the brother he’d always wanted when he was a kid. “Yeah. He was born a few hours ago. He’s called Gabriel.”

Elleshia and Gracie manage to crack a smile at that one, and Jamie gets up to give him a hug. “Congrats, mate, that’s awesome. I’m happy for you guys.”

Owen pats his back in silent gratitude, then addresses his sisters. “We’re going to the hospital this evening to meet him, just so you know.” They both nod.

“Are you taking the cake?” Jamie asks. “Might be a hygiene risk, now I think about it.”

Owen shrugs. “Don’t know, mate. I’ve asked, but they haven’t said yet – probably all asleep.”

“Well, if all else fails,” Jamie says with a broad grin, “we can just eat it between the four of us and make a new one. It won’t last until they get home.”

The girls suddenly look much more interested, and Owen laughs. “Sounds good to me. We can put his name on it as well, now we know what it is.”

“Can we have it now?” Gracie asks, widening her eyes. It would look cute to anybody else, but Owen’s immune to it after so many years.

“Maybe we should wait until they’ve said no,” Jamie says diplomatically. “It would be a bit awkward if your mum and dad said they wanted the cake and we’ve already eaten half of it.”

“Exactly,” Owen continues gratefully. “If they say no, you can have some after school, I promise.”

“Maybe even some with dinner too,” Jamie adds. “Can’t have any evidence left, just in case. Now, come on – time for school!”

The girls laugh. Jamie’s got that way with them that probably comes from not being their brother – he’s the good cop to Owen’s bad cop, in this bizarre quasi-parental situation they’ve temporarily found themselves in. However he’s managing it, Owen’s just happy that his sisters will listen to one of them. They make a good team, for what it’s worth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you thought about this, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


	18. Chapter 18

The word comes from the hospital that Andy doesn’t think a cake appropriate on a maternity ward, so the George-Farrell household are given full authorisation to eat it sneakily and produce another one at the weekend.

Gracie and Elleshia tell Owen excitedly in the car on the way home about how jealous all their friends are, and how cute they think Gabriel is. “Mrs Monaghan didn’t even set maths homework, she was so distracted!” Elleshia announces triumphantly. Gracie’s immediately complaining about her teachers’ commitment to setting homework, and Owen can’t help laughing. Simpler times, truly.

Jamie’s ready with the cake when they walk in, which promptly puts an end to any squabbling. _Thanks_ , Owen mouths at him over the girls’ heads, feeling more like a run-down parent by the minute. Jamie just winks and offers him a slice.

They’re halfway out the door again to go to the hospital when Jamie appears with a bouquet of flowers. “For your mum,” he says, a bit uncertain. “I checked the website and they’re allowed.”

Owen takes the flowers and hugs him. “Thanks, mate. I wouldn’t even have thought of that. Seriously, thank you.”

Jamie brushes him off, shooing the three of them out the door. “It’s nothing, really. Now, go on. You’re losing out on bonding time with the baby!”

Owen mock-salutes him, handing off the flowers to Gracie. “Hold them while I’m driving,” he instructs. If he’s stiffer than usual, it’s only because of the memory of her little comment the other day. If texting Jamie to say he was setting off home was gay, then being given flowers and a hug by him would absolutely qualify as gay in her mind.

Mercifully, she keeps her mouth shut.

It’s simple enough to follow the signs from the main entrance of the hospital to the maternity wards, and Andy’s in the waiting room ready to take them through when they traipse in. “For mum,” Owen says in answer to his curious look at the flowers.

Andy nods, slaps him on the back. “Thanks, mate. You’ve been a massive help the last few days – probably should be giving you a present rather than the other way round!” Owen shrugs, steps back to let his sisters greet him. He’s not going to mention the cake if they don’t.

They go through to the ward in a little cluster, Andy leading and Owen trailing behind. His mum’s right at the end of the row of beds, next to a big window. The flowers will like being in the sun, he thinks absently.

On the other side of the bed, he realises as they get closer, is a tiny cot, with a baby in – his brother. Andy makes a dramatic shushing gesture at them because his mum and little Gabriel are both sleeping soundly.

“He’s so cute!” Gracie whispers, clapping her hands together. “Can we hold him when he wakes up?”  
Andy smiles, the hard expression softening for once. “I don’t see why not. He might pull your hair, though, so be careful.”

Owen leans over and deposits the flowers on the bedside cabinet. He can’t see anything to put them in, so he’s happy to absolve himself of the responsibility for the moment.

Soon enough, Gracie and Elleshia’s excited whispering starts to disturb the baby. He’s gone from the only movement being the rise and fall of his chest to squirming around, little hands curling up into fists. Owen tenses. If he wakes up, there’ll be words from Andy, and not even his temporary thaw can save them then.

Gabriel’s eyes – dark like the rest of the family’s, Owen notes, hyper-aware – flick open. He holds his breath, but Andy’s already scooping up the baby into his arms and rocking him back to sleep.

He makes sure to glare at his sisters behind Andy’s back so they know not to do it again. They’ve never been exposed to Andy’s wrath in the same way as him, he’s pretty certain, and he doesn’t want that to start now.

His mum wakes up at the sound of Andy’s soft murmurings, and she smiles wearily at her other three children. “Hello, loves,” she says, gesturing for them to come closer. “You been behaving yourselves?”

Elleshia and Gracie immediately tell her that they’ve been perfect angels, and Owen nods in answer to his mum’s questioning look over their heads. “We brought you flowers,” he says. She sees them lying on the cabinet and, to his horror, tears up. “I can take them away if you don’t like them,” he says hurriedly. “Thought it would be nice, that’s all.”

“Oh, Owen, you silly billy,” she says, reaching out for his hand. “They’re beautiful, thank you so much. I’m just tired, that’s all.” She fixes him with as stern a look as she can muster. “You shouldn’t apologise as much, pet. Your heart’s in the right place, and that’s what matters, most of the time.”

He squeezes her hand and moves back, careful not to monopolise her time. Gracie’s straight in to tell her about the cake Jamie made for them, omitting the fact that’s already been eaten and another has to be prepared. His mum’s eyes moisten yet again, and Owen decides that it’s just the exhaustion. She’s never normally this sappy.

“It’s the hormones,” Andy says into his ear, still soothing the baby in his arms. “She was like this after you and both the girls – crying at anything. Women, honestly!” He barks out a short laugh, and Owen has to force himself not to recoil. His mum’s just given birth to a bloody baby, and he still can’t cut her any slack. He hates it, and he has to picture himself back in the safe haven of Jamie’s house to calm himself down.

While his eyes were screwed shut, his mum had apparently given permission for the girls to hold their little brother, and he opens them to see them bickering over who gets to go first. “If you’re going to be like that,” Andy doesn’t-quite-but-almost snaps, “Owen can have him first. He’s the oldest, anyway – he’s least likely to drop him!”

Owen holds out his arms, vaguely remembering the technique from when the girls were born. It was years and years ago but his arms are bigger now, he reasons, so it should be fine.

Andy hands over the baby, and Owen can feel his mum and sisters’ eyes on him. He’s used to pressure; this is nothing. Gabriel is a solid weight in his arms, fitting in snugly. “Hello,” he murmurs, bringing the baby closer to his face. “I’m your big brother.”

He’s never usually emotional about things. He can’t remember the last time he cried since moving back to Saracens from Bedford. But now – the sweet, faintly milky smell of the baby and his bright, shining eyes and gentle gurgles filling his senses – he’s feeling distinctly teary. It’s not his kid, and thank God for that, but he can imagine why his mum’s so weepy at the moment.

He tickles at Gabriel’s chin, provoking more pleased giggles. His little brother grabs at his finger with chubby, uncoordinated hands, and he just about melts. Gabriel’s adorable. No offence to his sisters, but he definitely hadn’t had the same reaction when they curled their tiny fists around his finger for the first time.

“It’s _my_ turn now,” Elleshia whines next to him, jolting him back to reality, out of the blissful bubble of him and the baby. Reluctantly, he passes him over to her.

“Come here, love,” his mum says, beckoning him towards her. He obediently goes round to the other side of the bed, perching on the cabinet while the other three are distracted. “How are you? I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages.”

Owen shrugs uncomfortably. She hasn’t, and it’s through no fault of her own. “Mmm,” he says noncommittally. When he looks over at her, she’s nodding slightly, and he knows that she knows. “Busy with rugby, the usual.”

Colleen pats his leg, wincing a little when she moves too far. “Yes, dear, but it’s the offseason. I hope you’re doing something that isn’t training for once.”

He casts his mind around, thinking desperately of anything that falls into that category. There’s not much, once he eliminates the cake, apart from-

“I had a date earlier,” he says, staring straight ahead. It’s not the first time, but it feels more significant when there’s a baby less than three feet away from them.

“Oh, really,” his mum says. Her voice is still quiet so as to avoid attracting the others’ attention, but her interest is definitely piqued. “Were they nice? Did you go somewhere good? It would be a shame to be sat inside all day with this weather.”

He shifts a little, getting the blood flowing in his legs again. “We went to Hampstead Heath, walked up the hill. Me and Georgie both brought food, so we had a picnic.”

“That’s lovely, Owen,” she says, squeezing his arm. “I’m glad. Where did you two meet?” He shifts again, on purpose this time, and she laughs knowingly. “It’s like that, is it?”

“She’s a really nice girl,” he protests. “We just – yeah. It was after the Prem win, she came up to me, and we hit it off.”

“Well, I’m happy for you,” she says. “Any chance of us meeting her, or is it too soon for that?”

“Mum!” he groans, and she chuckles. “We’ve only been on one proper date. It’s definitely too soon.”

“Suit yourself,” she says, but the gleam in her eye tells him she’s not being serious. Then Andy’s handing Gabriel over to her for a feed, and the moment is broken.

They stay for another twenty minutes, before a nurse comes over to tell them that visiting hours are ending shortly, so could they think about saying their goodbyes? Owen kisses his mum and brother on the foreheads, and accepts a handshake from Andy. He’s not doing more than absolutely necessary to keep the peace.

Once all the farewells have been said, Owen leads his sisters back down to the carpark. The nurses reckon his mum and Gabriel will be allowed home on Sunday, so he’s got the girls for another two days until the baby’s settled on Sunday evening.

He texts Jamie when they’re setting off – it’s almost more directed at Gracie than out of consideration for his housemate, at this point. It’s not a long drive back from the hospital, and his fond recollections of little Gabriel make it pass in a flash.

“Ayup, ducks,” Jamie says when they troop past him into the house. “How was it?”

Elleshia and Gracie are instantly talking nineteen to the dozen about their new brother, and Jamie humours them for the five minutes it takes them to lose steam and retreat back to their room, as usual.

“So he’s nice, then?” Jamie asks, cracking open a can of beer and handing another to Owen, who shrugs.  
“I mean – he’s a baby. Cute and all, but about what you’d expect.”

Jamie frowns at him as they walk through to the living room and drop down onto separate sofas. “You mean you’re not suddenly overcome with broodiness? I thought that’s what was meant to happen, especially with your new girlfriend.”

Owen puts his feet up on the stool, taking a swig of beer to play for time. “Not really. Anyway, I’ve only met Georgie twice, and I can barely remember the first time.”

Jamie snorts. “You must have made an impression, if she was willing to give it a try after that night, honestly.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” He sits up, remembering something. “Actually, she did say she knew who you were from watching our matches. She wanted to try and set you up with some of her mates, but I said I thought you were seeing someone and the rest of the lads are married or old. She was proper disappointed!”

Jamie looks at him over the top of his beer can. “What makes you think that?”

“What, that she was disappointed? She went all pouty, that’s what.”

He rolls his eyes. “No, you twit. Why do you think I’m dating someone?”

It’s Owen’s turn to be exasperated. “Because, _mate_ , you spend all your time on your phone or in your room, and I’ve never seen you actually on a date. Either you’re dating Elliot and you’re way too co-dependent, or it’s some random girl I’ve never met.”

Jamie splutters, wiping the beer spray off his shirt. “Piss off, mate. You’re not that much of a detective.”

Owen raises his eyebrows. “I swear you said you weren’t single, though, I swear. Are you and Elliot just attached at the hip via phone, then?”

His friend blushes, sipping at his drink before answering. “No, we’re not. It’s just what it takes to keep any kind of closeness long-distance.”

Owen wants to make a retort about how him and George have been managing without being addicted to their phones, but then he realises. They haven’t been managing. Unlike before, when it was just a couple of weeks or months without talking – now, it’s been a full year, pretty much.

He’s thought a lot about texting and reopening the lines of communication: at Christmas, on George’s birthday, during the Junior Championship. Every time, he just gets caught up in something else, or distracted, or busy with everything going on around him. He’d like to think that he’s on George’s mind similarly, but he has no way of knowing.

Everything he knows about George now, he’s gleaned second-hand from Jamie and Elliot. Even the news about his boyfriend came via them.

He needs to fix this. First, though – he’s got to deal with the screaming coming from his sisters’ room upstairs. After that, he’ll text George.

*

He doesn’t, to his own disappointment and the surprise of absolutely nobody. He’s caught up with making the cake, and helping out with Gabriel when he can, and training, and going on dates with Georgie, and finally making plans to buy his own house, and preseason, and the start of the season.

He’s busy, is how he justifies it. There’s a lot of dead time in his schedule, but somehow texting George slips his mind for three months on end.

It’s with more than a bit of trepidation and a lot of guilt that he sees George’s name pop up on his phone screen the day after his twentieth birthday.

He’s still at Jamie’s – buying a house is hard, he’s learned recently – and they’re slumming around in the living room watching the Super League semi-final between Catalans and Wigan. They’d smashed Leicester 25-50 the previous day, so Owen feels he’s earned it.

Wigan are currently 44-0 up with ten minutes to play, and he’s confident enough to take his eyes off the screen to check his phone when it pings next to him on the sofa.

 _happy bday mate!!_ George has written. _bet you’re enjoying this game lol_

His hands are shaking, he realises when he tries to respond. He doesn’t know what to say, in the first place – sorry for ghosting you for a year? – and he can’t physically type anyway.

 _Thanks! And yeah, I am :D_ he sends after too much deliberation.

_Sorry you guys didn’t make it through though._

George texts back almost immediately.

_ty_

_it’s okay though, not my problem anymore_

_?????_ Owen types, not sure if he’s understood what George is saying. He’s never had the mercenary attitude some guys have to the game, and he’s not on a big enough contract for that anyway.

_oops, shouldn’t have said that o.o_

_promise you won’t tell if I tell you a secret?_

Owen’s curiosity gets the better of his common sense. Is George retiring? He’s only eighteen, and he doesn’t have great qualifications for life in the real world. _Yep. Go on then._

_I’m moving to Leeds next season!!!!!!_

_proper big 4 now, innit_

_they’re announcing it after the final_

“Holy shit,” Owen says, staring at his phone in disbelief. A year and a half of professional rugby, and George is going to be playing for Leeds. Already. What the _fuck_.

_That’s seriously impressive, mate, congrats._

_Big money now??_

_more than before, but not compared to you rip_ George types back, and Owen snorts.

_You know I’m in it for the money, mate._

_All about that £££._

_yeah right_

_bet you got a bit more for winning the Prem tho_

_Let’s just say it didn’t hurt ;)_ Owen sends. He doesn’t want to get too far into a conversation about their relative salaries, not when they’re talking for the first time in a year.

 _Are you getting your own place now, or what?_ he says, when George doesn’t seem inclined to reply.

_nah, not yet_

_mum thinks 18 is too young, so I’m sharing with a couple of other young guys_

_like you and Jamie but we don’t know each other much_

_Ok, that makes sense._

A sudden thought occurs to him, and now the proverbial floodgates have been opened, he can’t stop himself asking.

_What about Luke?_

_:(_ George replies, and he feels bad for asking.

_it’s only 40mins by train or 15 driving, but he doesn’t think it’s worth it_

_big sad_

Owen can imagine the sadness on his face; he’s seen it most weeks on his TV, what with Bradford’s miserable record this season.

_Sorry about that, mate._

_Plenty more fish in the sea though I guess._

_yeah_ George sends, and the conversation dies. Owen wants to go and interrogate Jamie about all the hints George had dropped, but it would be too awkward. If he were a good friend, he would know already.

“Alright, mate?” Jamie asks, bumbling back into the living room.

“Yeah,” Owen says, lifting up his phone. “Just texting George.”

The way Jamie’s eyes widen is, objectively speaking, comical. As it is, it just makes him feel worse. “Wow, okay. How’s he doing?”

“Happy but also sad about the move,” Owen says and tucks his phone away again.

“Hang on,” Jamie says, sitting down right next to him. “What move? I haven’t heard anything.”

Owen glows inside. He’s the bearer of George-related news for once, not the other way around. “He’s moving to Leeds – Leeds Rhinos, for next season. He didn’t mean to tell me, I don’t think.”

“And Leeds are good?” Jamie checks. He watches league with Owen because he’s almost always watching it at the weekends, but he’s not particularly interested outside of when George is playing.

“Leeds are – yeah, much better. They’re in the semis next week, and they’ll probably get through to the final. It’s a really good move for him,” Owen says confidently. He’s been watching league since before he could walk; he knows what he’s talking about.

“Good for him,” Jamie says, looking happier now. “What’s the catch?”

“Luke doesn’t want to make the effort, even though it’s only ten miles,” Owen says. They both pull a face, and he’s glad they’re on the same page about this. From Jamie’s reports, he was a perfectly nice guy, but George deserves better than this.

“Ah well,” Jamie says, sitting back on the sofa. “If he won’t make Fordy happy, fuck him. He’s only eighteen – he’s got plenty of time to spread his wings, and Leeds is bigger anyway.”

“More gay places?” Owen asks. He doesn’t care much either way, for himself, but he does want George to be happy, however little they talk.

“Oh, yeah, mate,” Jamie laughs. “The whole city is twice the size for starters, but there’s way more bars and clubs, that kind of thing.”

Owen pauses. “How do you know all this stuff? London, maybe, but Leeds is a bit random for you, surely?”

Jamie stretches his arms with a catlike grin. “Me and Elliot have been planning to take little Georgie out to the gay clubs for a while. We did a survey of all the northern cities to see which would be best, and – trust me – Bradford was very low down on the ranking.”

“Why would you want to go gay clubbing, though?” Owen asks. “I mean, I’m sure it’s fun, but it’s not really your thing.”

His friend rolls his eyes. “Look, mate, two of my closest friends are gay and bi. I want to help them feel comfortable and have a good time, and any kind of club is fine by me.”

Owen has to consider that for a moment. Of course, doing things for friends is a good thing, a sign of commitment to the relationship. Jamie watches league for him; he cooks most of the time and does the gardening. He’s never thought of extending that to – to going to a _gay club._

Sensing his rising panic, Jamie rests his hand on Owen’s knee. “Faz, I’m not saying it’s something you have to do. I enjoy it, and they appreciate that. But we all know what Andy’s like about gay stuff and that it makes you awkward about it.”

Owen opens his mouth to clarify, but Jamie barrels onward. “None of us think you’re homophobic, we just recognise that it makes you twitchy in case he finds out, you know? We can still be friends without you pushing yourself too far to come out with us, okay?”

He nods, defeated. “I just… I mean, you’re right, about the twitchiness, and I promise I’m working on it,” he says in a small voice. “But thinking about you guys having that extra thing which connects you and I can’t get involved in – I don’t know, it’s not a nice feeling.”

Jamie tugs him into a cuddle. “Hey, mate. We all feel like that, I promise. When you first turned up with Fordy, you were stuck to each other like glue with all your northern sayings and jokes. And yeah, maybe I was a little jealous at times, but I didn’t try to force it, and everything worked out in the end, right?”

Owen sighs, letting his head drop onto Jamie’s shoulder. “I know. It’s just that you three have this thing that joins you together even more, and your own group chat to talk about gay stuff on. I don’t get it – you’re not gay and neither am I, so how come you’re involved in it and I’m not?”

Jamie pets his hair, and he feels like a petulant child. How does every single conversation he has with Jamie these days end with him on the verge of tears? He’s supposed to be better than this, for fuck’s sake.

“Faz – Owen – I really don’t know the answer to that one, mate. It’s their space for talking about the stuff they can’t talk about most of the time because of their jobs, and somewhere along the line they decided they were okay with having me there too. I can ask, but-”

“You don’t want to make them uncomfortable, I get it,” Owen says dully. “It’s fine. I know what you mean, and I’m sorry for pushing it. I hope you have fun with your clubbing, whenever that happens.” He works his way out of Jamie’s hug and stands up. “I’m going for a run. I’m fine, I promise – I just need a moment.”

“Okay, mate,” Jamie says quietly. “I’ll make dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay safe everyone, and look after yourselves :)
> 
> [Tumblr.](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com)


	19. Chapter 19

He does chat a bit more with George after that, keeping to the short list of ‘safe’ topics just in case. Owen doesn’t want to set himself off on another crying meltdown on Jamie’s shoulder, and he’s sure George is the same with whoever he’s staying with.

The quarterfinals of the union world cup are as non-controversial a topic as any, so Owen feels confident in texting George about it. Besides, it’s a Saturday morning in October – what else is his friend going to be doing?

 _This is shite_ , he sends. _We let them get ahead too quickly._

_for sure_

_7-19 is not a good look_

_maybe if they score another though…_

_Wow, you really spoke that one into existence._

_Ah fuck, he’s missed the conversion._ Owen groans. The flyhalf on screen looks just as depressed, but that’s not much consolation.

_Thought Jonny was better than this._

_12-19, still awful_ George replies.

_never mind, it’s not like either of us have a dog in the fight_

_I’m going to spend the rest of the day watching the other matches lol_

Owen laughs. _I’m tempted to do the same – we play tomorrow @ home so it doesn’t really matter._

 _text me through it?_ George asks. _I’ve got them all recorded_

_did you see Ireland-Wales or were you in bed?_

_No – think Jamie would have killed me if I was up yelling that early!_

_cool, we can watch that now, and then SA-Australia and NZ-Argentina_

_I kind of know who’s going to win, but rugby’s rugby you know?_

Owen, in fact, does know. He gets up to turn the recording box-thing on, joints cracking as he moves for the first time in two hours.

_Might need to do some press-ups during, I’m all seized up now._

_lol, so old_

_make it into a bingo – fifty for a try, twenty for a conversion, thirty for a pen_

_sixty for a drop goal because it’s never going to happen_

_You doing this as well?_ Owen doesn’t want to be stuck making his arms fall off by himself. That’s no fun.

_maybe halving the numbers_

_it is the offseason for me, after all_

_Lazy bastard >:-(_

_Okay, I’m ready now. Ireland-Wales, here we come._

Wales score three tries to win 10-22, and Owen’s never been so relieved to see Priestland missing one of his conversions. He’s rolling around on the floor, rubbing at his arms in preparation for the press-ups associated with Davies’s try in the sixty-fourth minute when Jamie walks in.

“The fuck are you doing?” he asks, nudging his shoulder with his toe. “It’s eleven in the morning, mate. We have a day off.”

Owen grunts, then summons the willpower for some actual words. “Me and George,” he grits out, “press-up rugby bingo.”

Jamie puts his hands on his hips, sighs. “Of course you are. Try not to injure yourself, alright? The coaches won’t be very impressed if you injure yourself now.”

Owen nods and turns his attention back to the screen. Priestland, curse him and all his family, has just kicked the conversion. A text from George pings through with a _!!!!_

 _Doing it now, calm down_ , Owen types with weary fingers. He hopes his put-upon tone is coming through. Then he heaves himself up into position yet again, and lowers himself to the floor with a grunt.

The next match, South Africa against Australia, is thankfully low-scoring. Owen’s feeling quite smug about it until the sixtieth minute, when he notices Steyn drop back in the pocket, beckoning to his forwards. “No, no, no,” he whispers, watching the drop goal sail through the uprights. “Fuck off, no.”

 _get on the floor!!!_ George texts immediately. _dw, I’m doing thirty, you’re not alone ;)_

 _I hate this_ , he sends back.

The New Zealand match isn’t much better, from a bingo perspective, although at least there’s a break for lunch and for his arms to recover. Argentina get a respectable ten points, which Owen is very happy about. The All Blacks, though – keeping to type and not knowing when to stop – score thirty-three. Weepu kicks all seven of his penalties, and just when he’s starting to think the agony is at an end – Thorn goes and scores under the posts.

Jamie’s joined him by this point, and he cackles as Owen slides back to the carpet. He’s never spent quite this much time up close and personal to it; he might start vacuuming a bit more if this is going to be a regular occurrence.

“How many’s that, mate?” Jamie asks gleefully.

“Fifty for a try, and twenty if he gets the conversion,” Owen answers sullenly. He’s right in front of the posts – he’s obviously going to get the conversion.

He pushes through the last set, arms screaming and abs not much better. When he hits seventy, he collapses onto the floor, face smushed into the carpet.

“How’re you feeling?” Jamie chirps. “Fresh and invigorated for a nice match against Newcastle in – oh, let me see – twenty-two hours’ time?”

He just groans in answer, clawing at his phone. _Think I’m done_ , he texts George. _Arms now nodles_

_*noodles._

_Good effort!!_ George replies, with an air that makes Owen suspect he’s been slacking on his own press-ups. _same for the semis?_

Owen has to think about that one. _Can’t do the first one live bc we have an away game, but yeah._

_nice_

_see you then, then_

_I’ll think of you every time I can’t brush my teeth_ , Owen replies nonsensically. His brain has clearly been scrambled by all the unexpected exercise.

“Do you think Johnson’s keeping his job after that mess?” Jamie asks, once Owen’s peeled himself off the floor. “He hasn’t been doing great for a while.”

Owen flops down on the sofa. “Don’t know, mate. They can’t fire him that easily, though – sets a bad precedent.”

“No better time for it,” Jamie argues. “Fresh faces, new blood in time for the Six Nations.” He snorts. “They might want a Farrell or two in there, given the way this tournament went.”

Owen shakes his head. “They can’t be that desperate. I mean, Jonny’s Jonny. He might have missed one kick today, but he’s still the key to it all.”

Jamie leans over and ruffles his hair. “I’m just saying, you’ve got a shot at a back-up role. And no,” he adds quickly, “I won’t make a bet with you about it. I’ve seen how those work out.”

“If I get into any kind of England camp or squad,” Owen promises, looking at him upside-down, “I’ll make tea for a month.”

Jamie grins. “Sounds good to me. Now, shouldn’t you be doing some more press-ups? I’ve got a stake in this now – I want you in top form to get me my nice chef-cooked dinners.”

Owen swats at him. Whatever Jamie may think, it’s not going to happen. It’s good to have dreams, of course, but achievable goals are much more Owen’s thing.

*

Andy’s appointed as England defence coach at the beginning of December, Owen finds out one day at Saracens when he isn’t there for training. He’s pretty excited, in a roundabout way: if Andy’s no longer a Sarries coach, he’ll have to see him even less.

The illusion lasts almost a month to the day, until Jamie bursts into his room on the evening of January 11, waving his phone. “Have you seen the news?” he half-shouts.

Owen looks up at him from his bed where he’s texting Georgie. They’re planning a date in a couple of weeks to celebrate their six-month anniversary. Whatever Jamie’s squawking about, he hasn’t seen it. “What is it, mate?”

“What is it?” Jamie repeats incredulously. _“What is it?_ Look at this!”

He shoves his phone under Owen’s nose, and he has to blink a few times before his eyes adjust. It’s the England squad announcement for the Six Nations. The forwards look to be mostly the same, from what he can tell. He reads through the backs.

_BACKS: (14)_

_Chris Ashton (Northampton Saints), Brad Barritt (Saracens), Mike Brown (Harlequins), Lee Dickson (Northampton Saints), Owen Farrell (Saracens), Toby Flood (Leicester Tigers), Ben Foden (Northampton Saints), Charlie Hodgson (Saracens)…_

He stops, flicks his eyes back up a few lines.

_Owen Farrell (Saracens)_

What the _fuck?_ Him, in the England squad, not even as injury cover? He’s twenty years old, for God’s sake.

He looks up at Jamie’s grinning face, then back to the screen. He’s got to make sure.

No, his name’s still there. _Holy shit._

“Nice one, mate,” Jamie says, repressed enthusiasm bubbling up in his voice. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

Owen bites his lip. “I have to tell Georgie that we can’t go on the date we’ve just spent ten minutes planning?”

Jamie sniggers. “Well, that too, but – you’re cooking dinner for a month!”

Owen can tell Jamie’s about to burst with smugness, topped up with a bit of pride for his friend. “Is it a month from now?” he asks, looking for a way to wiggle out of it. “Because I’ll be away for most of it, surely.” The same excitement is fizzing in his stomach, and he’s trying to play it cool. He’s up in the big leagues now.

Jamie frowns. “Let’s say it’s a month’s worth of meals – so thirty, ideally soon but whenever you can. I’m going to be doing all the cooking all on my lonesome now, anyway.”

Owen sits up, hugs Jamie. “Sorry about that, mate.”

“Don’t apologise,” Jamie says into his shoulder, voice muffled. “This is so cool. You’re going to be great.”

“Not that quick, I don’t think. They’ll be wanting me at centre, with Charlie in the squad, and I haven’t done that in ages.”

Jamie clucks at him. “None of that attitude, mister. England wanting you for any position is incredible. Fuck, I’d play inside centre for England if they wanted me to.”

Owen snorts, and the floodgates are released. “Fucking hell,” he laughs. “Thank fuck for Stuart Lancaster, honestly. God, I’m so happy.”

Jamie scrubs the top of his head affectionately. “As you should be. Now, text Georgie back and check your emails. You’ve got camp in a couple of weeks, and you need to know where you’re meant to be going.”

“Or Andy can just take me,” Owen says, the first negative thoughts creeping into his mind. He’d thought he was free of this bullshit, and now he’s right back in it. The stakes are a hundred times higher, though – he really can’t make a fuss, or he’ll be kicked right back to Saracens.

Jamie hugs him again, although it’s tentative this time. “Look,” he says softly, “he’s only defence coach. It’s not like that’s your main job, right? You’ll be okay – and it’s only for a few days at a time. Just hide with Brad and Charlie and the other Saracens lads. They’ll look after you.”

Owen sighs, staring at the floor. “I don’t want to be looked after. I just want to be able to enjoy it, and not be worried that he’s watching me all the time.”

Jamie squeezes him tighter. They both know there isn’t much they can do to change things.

*

It turns out the training camp is at a rugby club up in Leeds. Jamie’s obviously told George, or he’s got wind of it one way or another, and Owen gets a series of texts the next day mixed in with the congratulations from what seems like everyone he’s ever met.

_heard you’re coming up my way for a bit_

_want to meet up?_

_our last preseason game is Sat 21, so I could do Sun 22_

He thinks about it. He’s not playing in the match that weekend because of his England commitments, and it’s on a Friday anyway. Andy’s going up a few days early to sort out coach-related things, and he can drive, so there’s really nothing stopping him.

Nothing, that is, apart from the niggling sense of doubt. He and George haven’t seen each other in person since – since George went up to start playing for Bradford over a year ago. Bloody hell, he’s so bad at this. It’s going to be awkward, whatever happens, and it’s whether he decides he can take the awkwardness and push through it or not.

The flip side is that Jamie will absolutely know that Owen’s hanging around their house for longer than he needs to, and George will probably tell him he’s avoiding him too.

In short, he hasn’t really got a choice here.

(He does like George, he has to remind himself. They were good mates, back in the day – life just got in the way, like with so many people he’s met and got to know over the years.)

_Sure! You know where’s good, right?_

_when are you getting to Leeds?_

_Don’t know yet – it’s a three hour drive, so not before lunch._

_okay_

_we could go to a cafe or sth_

_That works. I think our hotel doesn’t start until Monday, but I can sort something out._

_you can stay with us if you want?_

_it’s me, Zak, Danny, and Kit in the house, and we have a spare room_

_I’m sure the lads would be fine with it_

_Check with them first, but that sounds great._

_awesome :D I’ll send you the address_

Owen types out a thumbs up emoji, then tacks on a _looking forward to it!_ He is looking forward to it, just as much as he’s bricking it – similar emotions to the actual England camp, really.

George sends back a matching thumbs up emoji, and Owen lets his phone screen go black. Shit, it’s been that long since they last saw each other, and now he has to meet George’s three – three! – housemates as well.

God, he’s screwed. George is inevitably going to report back to Elliot and Jamie, and they’re all going to realise his lack of social skills. Georgie’s practically the only new person he’s met outside of rugby in ages, and even then she was the one making the effort and he was drunk.

Owen has ten minutes in which to panic/mope/yank half his hair out, and then he gets up to go and make tea. With all the England training, he’s going to be feeding Jamie until about April at this rate, so he needs to get started early.

“A little birdy told me,” Jamie says over dinner an hour later (Owen’s wrangled some meatballs and pasta onto a plate, but it’s nothing special), “that you’re going up to Leeds early to hang out with George.”

“And they’d be right,” Owen says, shovelling a load of spaghetti into his mouth.

Jamie leans forward, kicks him under the table. “Well? Aren’t you excited?”

“More like terrified,” Owen mutters, pasta stifling the words.

“Why? You haven’t seen him in months – unless something happened at Christmas which neither of you mentioned.”

Owen fights the urge to kick Jamie back – hard. “Because I haven’t seen him in months, that’s why. You know I’m shit at small talk.”

Jamie clearly has no such compunctions, and whacks his shin again. “Mate, they’re all going to be rugby players, so you’ll have stuff to talk about. Secondly, you’re northern, so they probably won’t realise you’re new. And thirdly – Fordy’s going to be there, so you won’t have to do small talk. You two go way back.”

Owen picks up another forkful of spaghetti, twizzles it a bit, and lets it fall back onto the plate. “Yeah, but like – we weren’t really friends in Wigan, and then we were for a year or two when he moved down here, and now we haven’t been talking much since he went back north. It’s not…” He casts around for something to explain better. “We’re not you and Elliot, I guess is the point.”

From the way Jamie’s face softens, he’s pretty sure his shins are safe from further assault. “Yeah, but I don’t have any connections with other people like I do with El. That’s – that’s completely different, and I don’t think you can expect that from everyone you meet.”

“Still…” He can hear his voice getting whiny, and he doesn’t care. “I don’t have that with anyone, and George was the closest I had to it, but then I’m shit at keeping in touch and now it’s awkward.”

“Who says it’s awkward?”

“Me!” Owen says, frustrated. “All I can think to ask about are things I should know already, and it’s going to be awkward. Zak and all these other guys are going to know all of it anyway, and I’ll look like an idiot.”

Jamie pats his hand, and Owen wants to growl at him to get off. “They know some of the stuff that’s happened in the last few months while they’ve been living together, sure. But they don’t have any of the mutual friends that you have with George, or the shared history, alright? It’s going to be a bit weird for all of you at first, and he’s probably as nervous as you are to introduce his mates to you.”

“Fine,” Owen says, reluctantly appeased.

“Good,” Jamie says briskly. “Now, eat up – you’ll need all the strength you can get for camp, and the bigger challenge of meeting three other teenage boys.”

Owen huffs, but digs his fork into the last of the meatballs anyway. His friend’s not wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you thought about this, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


	20. Chapter 20

Safe in the knowledge that Andy’s gone up to Leeds already, Owen takes the time to visit his mum and siblings on Sunday morning before driving up north himself.

“Have you grown?” Colleen asks, looking up at him with Gabriel cradled in her arms.

“No more than he has,” Owen answers. He reaches out a hand to tickle his little brother under the chin, provoking a stream of happy babbling. It’s impossible not to smile in the face of the baby’s easy joy.

“Come in, love,” his mum says, tilting her head back into the hall. “Are you staying long?”

He shakes his head. Whatever he says, she won’t think it’s long enough. “About half an hour – I’ve got to get up to Leeds by two.”

“Why?” she asks, settling down next to him on the sofa and handing over Gabe. “I thought it started tomorrow.”

“Well, yeah, but I’m meeting up with George, then staying over at his house for the night.” He keeps his eyes focused on Gabe’s cheeky grin and grabbing hands.

His mum chuckles. “I always forget that him and Georgie are different people, you know? Though I suppose she came into your life when he was fading out of it, so it makes sense.”

Owen shifts, strokes his brother’s soft hair for something to do. She’s said it before, that she somehow thought he was dating George at first, and it always makes him all squirrelly. He’s not – George is fine, obviously, but he doesn’t know what signals he’s apparently been giving off to make her think he’d be with a guy.

He’s always had a sneaking suspicion that Andy had told his mum about the wrestling incident, four years ago now, but they couldn’t be taking it seriously, surely? He’d never try and get with someone with his parents in the house, for starters. He has _standards_.

When he comes back to himself, his mum’s chatting away to one of his sisters while he’s absentmindedly patting Gabriel’s stomach. Thankfully, he seems to be enjoying it, from the gurgling, and his mum hasn’t noticed anything amiss.

“Are you going to be off, pet?” she asks, gesturing for him to give the baby back.

He glances at his watch. “Probably.” They both stand, and she leans up to kiss his cheek.

“Text us when you get there,” she says, and Owen’s reminded of Jamie’s stern insistence on the same. “And say hi to your dad, and remember to stay safe.”

It’s the same thing she says before every match, and it settles him. “Thanks, mum,” he says, hugging her carefully around Gabriel. “I’ll let you know how I’m getting on.”

His mum summons his sisters downstairs with a shout, and they give him a parting hug too. “Be good for mum,” he says, and they – predictably – roll their eyes. “See you soon, little man,” he whispers to Gabe, and then it’s really time to be going.

He waves at the little gaggle in the doorway, his mum and the baby flanked by Elleshia and Gracie. The girls, at least, are happy that Andy’s out of the house for a while.

He gets in the car and puts George’s address into the satnav. The house is just to the north of the city, so he’ll have to drive about half an hour in the morning to the actual hotel to join up with the rest of the squad. Stomach burbling with nerves, he pulls away with a final wave.

Three hours up the M1, and then he’s going to see George again for the first time in a year. He’s more stressed and eager to impress than if it were Georgie he was going to meet, and maybe that should be a sign of something.

Nevertheless, he tidies the thought away into the (bulging, nearly overflowing) box of _things not to think about_ in the back of his mind, and focuses on the road ahead.

*

Aside from a few roadworks, it’s a fairly easy journey. Owen sticks his favourite CD on loop and sings along in an effort to dispel the growing nerves. It’s the motorway signs that are doing it, he reckons; watching the miles tick down on the satnav screen and on the big blue signs by the side of the road just reinforces the anticipation.

He might stop at Woolley Edge unnecessarily to top up his fuel tank, but that’s between him and the employee in the otherwise deserted filling station shop. It’s cheaper up north, anyway.

Then there’s really no more delaying he can do, and it’s the final forty minutes of the drive. George had sent him a photo of the house – a fairly standard terrace – so that can’t be an excuse either.

He trundles along, mindlessly listening to the satnav’s instructions, until it’s telling him that he has arrived at his destination. He studies the row of houses, crawling along to find 46. It’s a long, curving road, but he sees it eventually and pulls over. A handy spot has been left on the pavement by the drive, so he parks up there and turns off the engine.

He’s got two separate bags, one full of kit and one with his normal stuff in, so he picks up the second, smaller one with hands that are definitely not shaking and walks up to the door. The gravel crunches beneath his feet as he shifts from side to side, waiting for someone to answer. He’s sure he heard the doorbell ring when he pressed it, and he’s about to check the house number against the notes on his phone when the door opens.

It’s not George, is the first thing he registers with a twinge of disappointment.

“Hello,” the guy in front of him says, confusion evident on his face. “I think you’ve got the wrong house, mate.”

Owen flushes, butterflies pushing their way out of his stomach and up into his throat. He hikes his bag further up on his shoulder.

Then there’s the thudding sound of someone crashing down the stairs, and Owen dares to hope.

“Owen!” George says, breathless. Owen finds himself mirroring George’s smile. “I’d thought you’d got lost or something.”

“Nah, just traffic,” he says, and they’re just grinning at each other inanely. Why had he been so worried about it being awkward? They’re fine, like always.

The other guy coughs, breaking the moment. “Care to introduce me, Fordy?”

George jumps like he’s been physically startled out of his thoughts. “Oh, sure. Owen, this is Zak – Zak, Owen Farrell. One of my best mates from home, and his first England union start’s next week.”

Owen shakes Zak’s hand. They’re about the same height, although Zak’s head and shoulders above him on the tattoo front. “You don’t know that,” he says to George, after a manly nod to Zak.

“The amount of union we have to watch because of you, I think he should,” Zak says, venturing half a smile. “You’re not half bad.”

Owen grins, wider still at the disgruntled expression on George’s face. “My housemate will probably say the same for you lot in a few months, so I wouldn’t be too narked.”

Zak shrugs. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it. Kit and Danny’ll be back in half an hour,” he says to George, “so you might want to clear out before then.”

George nods, beckons Owen inside. “We’ll dump your stuff in your room, and then get going.”

They leave Zak in the hallway and go upstairs. “What’s wrong with Kit and Danny?” Owen asks. From what he’s seen of their play, they both seem to be decent enough guys.

“Nothing, really,” George says, pointing Owen into a bedroom. “They’ve just been out golfing with their girlfriends and they’ll be all alpha and braggy when they get back, so it’s best to stay out of their way for a while.”

“They’re fine,” he rushes to assure Owen. “It’s just easier sometimes to avoid them and then come back out when they’ve calmed down.”

“If you say so.” Owen drops his bag unceremoniously on the bed.

“Alright,” George says. “If you want to use the bathroom or anything, that’s fine, and then we can be off.”

Owen nods, and follows his directions to the toilet. He’s finished up his business there and texted his mum and Jamie that he’s arrived safely ( _have fun_ being the reply both times, with distinctly different connotations – he hopes), and then he comes out ready to leave.

“I thought you’d want a walk,” George says, shrugging a thick winter coat on in the hall, “after all that driving, and the other two have got the car for the moment anyway.”

“Fine by me.” If anything, he’s done too little exercise today – he can already hear Andy yelling at him for being lazy, but this should help to quieten the shouts a little.

They walk for five minutes in silence, breaths crystallising in the air in front of them. The nervous churning is back in Owen’s stomach, and he shoves his hands in his pockets to keep George from noticing their shaking.

“How’s things down there, then?” George asks. They’re both looking straight ahead. “My mum says you’ve got a baby brother?”

Owen relaxes a fraction. If there’s something he’s happy to talk about until the cows come home, it’s little Gabe. “Yeah – born in June. He’s really cute.”

“Have you got a photo?” George asks, and Owen digs his phone out of his pocket. He hasn’t got one photo, more like a hundred. He opens the photos app and passes it across to George, commenting on each individual photo and providing its backstory. George seems suitably charmed, and the topic lasts them all the way to the café.

“I’ve got this,” George says, batting away Owen’s hand when he tries to pay for his order. “You’re the guest – go and sit down.” Grumbling a bit for show, he takes a seat at a table near the back of the café, under a massive photo of Kirkstall Abbey. He twiddles his thumbs for a few minutes while George makes small talk with the server, and then he’s making his way over with the tray.

“For you, good sir,” George says, handing over a toastie and a pot of tea before sitting down and helping himself to a croissant. Owen thanks him, tearing the crusts off the sandwich. “Carb loading for the weekend already, mate?”

He chews down the rest of his mouthful before speaking. “Not really, it’s just – you know when you’re all jittery and you can’t stop thinking about things, so you try to do stuff to help like eating a bit more so you can perform better?”

If anyone’s going to understand what he means, it’s George, and sure enough he’s nodding.

(Youngest ever players in their respective sports – it’s a pretty niche club.)

“Yeah,” George says with a laugh. “I managed to eat all the turkey leftovers at Christmas because I was shitting myself about the first preseason games. My mum genuinely thought I had worms, I was eating so much.”

Owen snorts, feeling a bit better. “It went fine, though. I couldn’t find any streams, but the written reports said you all played well.”

George shrugs with one shoulder, peels off another strip of the croissant and stuffs it in his mouth. “Yeah, it was just everything being new and not knowing anyone – again.” There’s a glint in his eye when he speaks again. “Which is exactly the same situation you’re in now, and as you said yourself – it went fine, or it’s going to go fine. They picked you for a reason.”

Owen grimaces, ripping the remains of the toastie in half. “I bloody hope so. Jamie’s been going on for weeks about how Lancaster wants me to be the vanguard of the revolution or something nutty like that.”

George snickers before growing serious. “I bet he’s been working on that line for a while. But, hey – at least you’re getting an international chance, you know? Our World Cup’s next year, and I haven’t heard anything.” He keeps going before Owen can jump in. “I know I’m still eighteen, mate, but it sucks seeing other people getting picked who I reckon are on the same level as me, just a bit bigger or a few years older.”

Owen smiles encouragingly. He knows he’s probably hurting, and it’s not directed at him like if they both played the same code, but it’s hard not to take it as a criticism of his own selection. “You’ve got a better chance this year with Leeds to impress, though. That can only be a good thing.”

George sits back in his chair, stretches out his arms. “I guess. Now, let’s stop being miserable and talk about something else.” He folds his arms across his chest, eyebrows raised, and Owen can take a hint. The ball’s in his court.

“Um, well,” he starts, casting around desperately for something interesting to talk about. Even though they’ve barely been in contact for the last year, much more has changed in George’s life than in Owen’s. They’ve already covered Gabriel, and he can’t really think of anything or anyone else…

Then it hits him. “Have you heard about how I first met the girl I’m with at the moment?” he asks. “Jamie might have mentioned it to you – he thinks it’s hilarious.”

George shrugs. Owen knows it’s only been a few months since he broke up with Luke, so maybe it’s not the best choice. Oh well – it’s not like he has a wealth of choice, and he’s committed now.

“So, me, Jamie, and the Saracens lads were going out after we won the Prem-”

“Congrats for that, by the way,” George interjects, and Owen accepts it with a smile.

“-and we went to a few clubs. You know I don’t really drink, and they’d been pouring drinks down my throat like no tomorrow, so I was feeling a bit fuzzy already in the first one we went to.” He checks George’s face. He’s still looking politely interested, if nothing else, so he keeps going.

“Then this girl comes up to me – blonde, fairly tall – and we start talking, and then we end up… Well, you can use your imagination for that one.” He sneaks a look out of the corner of his eye at George, really regretting trying to tell the story. It’s not that funny from the outside, although he and Georgie have had a few laughs over it.

“Hope you won’t mind if I don’t,” George says, taking a slurp of his tea. “Straight sex is not one of my specialities.”

This time it’s Owen that’s blushing, and he can acknowledge from the midst of his awkwardness that George is giving as good as he’s getting.

“How’s that going for you, though?” he asks. They’re teenage boys; it’s totally fine to be gossiping about this stuff, right? “Since Luke, and all.”

George pulls a face. “I don’t know what you think I’m getting up to, mate. I’ve been so busy with the move and then being home for Christmas and then training that I haven’t had the time or the energy.”

“Not even a little bit of clubbing? Kids these days, so boring,” Owen says, pouring himself another cup from the teapot.

“Not even that,” George says with an air of finality. “Anyway, Jamie and Elliot have made me promise not to go out – at least to the gay places – without them, so there isn’t much incentive.”

Owen’s worked on this, channelling his instinctive resentment into happiness for their being able to have a close friendship. “That’s fair,” he allows. “Have they decided when they’re coming up, then?”

“They’re thinking late June at the moment, just because neither of them have a shot at international stuff so they’ll have time.”

Owen nods. If he’s going to be out of the country on an England tour, then there’s no way he can be jealous of a gay night out in Leeds. “That’s good, yeah.”

The conversation drifts after that, until Owen’s finished his last cup of tea and George has cleaned up all the crumbs from his plate. “Ready to head back?” George asks. “Kit and Danny’ll definitely have calmed down by now.”

“Sounds good to me,” Owen says. “I’m excited to meet them.”

Okay, he’s not, but he’s less apprehensive now he and George have settled back into their earlier easy banter. He’s got backup, at least.

“Ayup, lads,” George calls as he unlocks the door. “Me and Faz are back!”

“In the kitchen,” someone – Owen thinks it’s Zak, based on the voice, but they’ve all got Yorkshire accents so it’s difficult to tell – shouts back.

“That’s Kit,” George says as they take their shoes off in the hallway, proving him wrong. “He’s got black hair and Danny’s blond, so that’s how you can tell them apart.”

Owen nods, running through the characteristics of each of George’s housemates in turn. Zak has tattoos, Kit’s got black hair, and Danny’s blond. They’re all about the same size apart from George, so that’s not going to be much help. Zak’s tattoos, Kit’s black hair, Danny’s blond hair. It’s fine.

“You alright?” George checks before they go through to the kitchen. Owen nods decisively. It’s not like he has a choice, either way.

“Afternoon, lads,” he says, Owen trailing behind. He does a quick scan of the room – black hair, so Kit, is stirring something in a pan, Zak’s sat at the table on his phone, and Danny – by process of elimination – is cutting up vegetables.

Owen’s about to introduce himself when Danny gets in there first. “Hot date, Fordy?” he asks, smirking.

“Heard you’d got yourself a southern boy this time, huh?” Kit adds.

“I’m from Wigan, actually,” Owen says, knowing he’s got to establish himself quickly. Either they’ve got brains like sieves or George genuinely didn’t tell them, because their mouths drop open in surprise.

“Good to see Fordy didn’t lose you,” Zak says, drawing attention away from Kit and Danny with a roll of his eyes. “He nearly got lost on the way back from Kirkgate, the first time we let him out by himself.”

“I wasn’t lost!” George protests. “I was just getting to know more of the city.”

Danny snorts. “We’ve heard that one before, mate. Anyway, Faz, take a seat. Tea’ll be ready in – how long d’you reckon, Kitten?”

“Twenty minutes,” Kit replies, scraping the prepared vegetables off the chopping board and into a pan of boiling water. “That alright for you, your highness?”

Zak smiles at Owen, drawing his attention away from the other two bickering men. “Nice afternoon?”

George is out of the room – going to the toilet or something – but Owen wouldn’t change his reply regardless. “Yeah, it was really nice. Good to catch up and all that.”

Zak taps at the table. “That’s good to hear. He’s been banging on about you coming up for weeks, it feels like.”

“Really?” Owen says, pleased.

“Yeah,” Danny says, having abandoned the cooking to Kit in favour of coming over to chat. “First he wouldn’t shut up about you doing England camp, and then he realised it was up near us and damn near exploded with excitement.” Owen’s about to say something when Danny barrels on. “Then he made us clear out the spare room so you had somewhere decent to sleep – didn’t he, Kitten?”

The man in question voices his agreement. Owen’s struggling to tell if it’s a genuine term of endearment or they’re just being blokey about it and doing it as banter.

“It was time we cleaned it up, anyway,” Zak says diplomatically. “Your mum would have had a fit when she came round last week otherwise.”

“Yeah, and that’s nothing compared to what _your_ mum would have done,” Danny says with a sleazy smile.

“ _Anyway_ ,” George says, intervening like Owen’s guardian angel, “how was golf?” He pats at Owen’s back to make him move his chair in, then shuffles past to take his own seat.

Danny and Kit are immediately off, chattering on about the number of holes they had done and how Danny was blatantly cheating but that was only because Kit had done it first, and just how long Kit was stuck in a sand trap for.

Zak and George have entered into a conversation about the match the day before at a much lower volume, and Owen’s comfortable enough to watch the interactions.

Kit and Danny are the boisterous ones of the house, he decides, and he wouldn’t be surprised if they were the halfbacks of the team, the way they’re yapping at a thousand decibels.

By comparison, Zak’s much more laidback. In reality, he’s probably one of the louder people he’s ever met, but not in this particular kitchen. Even though George is relatively quiet and small, Owen’s happy to see he’s not being left out. There’s not much he could do if that were the case, but he’s relieved anyway.

At long last – and following another half-shouted debate between Kit and Danny about whose turn it is to serve the food – tea is ready, and Owen digs in with relish. It’s the nerves again, he knows, but pasta always tastes good.

“So – you live in London, then?” Kit asks inquisitorially.

Owen considers telling him that he actually lives thirty miles outside of the city, but quickly decides it’s not worth the hassle. “Yeah, pretty much.” From this far away, St Alban’s virtually is London, at any rate.

“He’s only asking because he’s been there twice, ever,” Danny adds. “The rest of us aren’t that provincial, don’t worry.”

Kit slaps him, not too gently. “Oi! I was just wondering – where would you say is good for a date? My girl’s been dropping hints about it for ages, and you’re basically a local.”

“All the usual touristy places,” Owen says, thinking about it. “That’s a decent start. And then – if you want somewhere a bit different, you could try Hampstead Heath? I went there for a date a while ago. Me and Georgie took a picnic, and it was good. Not in January, mind.”

Kit blinks at him. “You – and-” he stares at George- “George. You went on a date?”

Danny and Zak are looking just as confused, and Owen rushes to correct them. “No, not George. My girlfriend’s called Georgie – I’m straight.”

“But all your friends from down south are gay,” Kit says to George, sounding betrayed. “I thought we had some gossip on you then.”

“Some of my friends are gay or bi or other things,” George says tightly, “but not all of them. Owen, for example, has never had a gay thought in his life.”

Owen wants to protest, to explain that he’s straight but he’s not Straight™, but he can tell this isn’t the time.

“What a disappointment,” Danny laments. “You were so close to having a juicy backstory, Fordy, but no.”

“Thanks for the recs, anyway,” Kit says. “Jessie’ll be glad I’ve got some ideas.”

“You’re welcome,” Owen gets out, voice sticking in his throat. George has gone stiff beside him, almost like he’s trying to disappear from the conversation. He doesn’t know what he can do to fix it, but he probably won’t manage it with the other three around.

“Imagine, though,” Danny carries on. “It’d be like Romeo and Juliet. Two houses, both alike in rugby-ness and being from Lancashire, divided by the harsh reality of union, league, and the M1. Makes my heart bleed just thinking about it.”

“Yeah, well, shut up and keep thinking about it,” Zak says harshly. “You’re making them uncomfortable.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, and that’s the end of all conversation until they break up from the table at the end of tea.

Zak manages to block the other two into doing the washing up as well, and he grabs Owen by the arm. “Go and talk to him, okay? I know they’re being dicks, and it shouldn’t spoil your visit,” he says lowly.

Owen nods in thanks and follows the sound of footsteps up to George’s room. Zak’s a decent guy, he concludes, although Kit and Danny could work on their tact – and volume. “George,” he says, knocking on the door. “Mate, it’s Owen.”

There’s a grunt from inside, and he takes it as permission to come in. From what he remembers, the room looks very like his bedroom back in Harpenden – a few less medals and trophies, maybe, but the same number of St Helen’s posters and kit neatly stacked against the walls.

George is lying spread-eagled on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. “Can I sit down?” Another grunt, so he perches on the corner of the bed. “Look, I’m – I don’t know what I’m meant to say, really. I mean, I’m not gay, but that doesn’t stop me being totally fine with you and Elliot.”

“I know,” George says, not looking at him. “You’re fine – better than that lot, anyway.” There’s a pregnant pause. “It’s the thought of…” He trails off.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Owen says gently. One of the things Jamie’s been best at when he gets in a state is not forcing him to say anything, and giving him the time to work out what he wants to say.

“No, I – I just have to get it out there,” George says through gritted teeth. He props himself up on one elbow, locks eyes with Owen. “I had a crush on you when I was younger. That’s all. So them assuming we’re dating hurt, because I used to want that and I could never have it.”

Owen’s ears are filled with a strange buzzing sound. “Is that why you came out to me?” he says hoarsely. “Because you thought I’d do the same and we could date?”

George flops back onto the bed. “Maybe that’s what I was thinking – subconsciously at least. It was more that I trusted you but you weren’t there all the time, so I could avoid you if it went wrong.”

Owen nods, still not fully comprehending George’s words. “But you’re over it now?”

“Yeah, don’t worry, I’m not going to be creeping on you in the night,” George says dully. “You’re safe.”

“It’s not that!” Owen blurts out. “I don’t care if you like me like that – I want you to be happy, and you can’t be happy if you’re miserable because you’ve got a crush on me that I can’t fulfil!”

George rolls over and buries his face in the duvet. “Okay, okay, you can stop reminding me what a nice guy you are,” he mumbles, although Owen can detect a hint of a smile in his voice. “I’m over it, so don’t make me like you again.”

“Your wish is my command,” Owen says, patting George’s calf clumsily. “I’m going to go back downstairs now, okay?”

“Sure,” George says, muffled. “Just make sure you don’t let Kit get you on Mario Kart – he’ll bruise your ego so much you won’t be able to train tomorrow.”

“If you say so, mate,” Owen laughs. “See you in a bit.”

With the George mess half-cleared up, it’s easier for Owen to relax. He’s known these guys – tattooed Zak, Kit with blond hair, Danny with black hair – for a couple of hours at most, but rugby guys aren’t the most complex beasts. He mentions George’s warning about Mario Kart, and that starts a competition to prove him wrong (or right, depending on point of view) which lasts until ten.

“I should probably be going to bed,” Owen says, when a lull in the conversation occurs. George is pressed up against his side on the small sofa, having come down a few hours before and nestled into his side. This time, the other lads don’t say anything about it.

“Big day tomorrow, hotshot,” Danny says, nodding wisely. “Wouldn’t want to scupper that for you.”

“Sweet dreams!” Kit adds brightly, and Zak does the same.

“Night, Owen,” George says softly, rubbing at his knee. “When’re you getting up in the morning?”

“About seven,” he replies, in the same low, intimate tone. “See you then?”

“Obviously. Someone needs to show you where the cereal is.”

Owen takes himself to bed after that, making sure to do some breathing exercises before climbing into bed. He needs a restful night, and any last-minute nerves won’t help.

It’s only once he’s pushed away the rugby anxiety that George’s earlier confession swims back into his consciousness, and he groans. He knows his friend didn’t do it on purpose, but it’s going to be bloody difficult to get it out of his head again.

Mirroring George’s position from earlier, he rolls over and buries his face in the pillow. If traditional relaxation techniques won’t get him to sleep, maybe a little suffocation will do the trick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what your thoughts on this update, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


	21. Chapter 21

The phone alarm starts blaring at seven, and Owen turns it off with a huff. Up, dressed, breakfast, say goodbye, drive to the team hotel. Clean and simple: no excess feelings.

He puts on trackies instead of the previous day’s jeans, just to be ready for arrival. He wants to blend in with the other guys, not stand out as a target for teasing. As the youngest there, he’s already in line for some ‘good-natured’ banter and he doesn’t need to give the existing members of the team more ammunition.

Owen wanders downstairs with a yawn. It’s early, and he needed a caffeine hit five minutes ago. Luckily, George is already in the kitchen when he enters, sitting at the table and picking his way through a bowl of porridge.

“Morning,” George says. His hair’s still a bit mussed from sleep and the pillow has left red lines marking the side of his face. “Sleep well?”

“Alright,” Owen says, leaning against the back of a chair. “Where’s the coffee?”

George grins, points at a cupboard. “God, I’d forgotten how grumpy you are in the morning sometimes.”

Owen goes over to the cupboard and takes out the coffee granules. “Not grumpy,” he says. The kettle’s already boiled, for which he is truly grateful.

“ _Not grumpy, just not awake_ ,” George finishes for him. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before, mate.”

When Owen’s made his coffee and poured some cereal in a bowl, he slumps down opposite George. At the beginning and end of the season, he doesn’t mind being up at this time with the birds tweeting and the light shining in around the edges of the curtains. Now, though – everything’s grim and dark, and the weather forecast predicts rain and general gloom. It’s nothing to put a man in a good mood.

Spoons clinking on ceramics and coffee being swallowed down adds a quiet layer to the stillness of the kitchen. It’s peaceful, and definitely beats driving up from St Albans this morning.

“When are the other lads getting up?” Owen asks, looking up at the ceiling.

George shrugs. “Any time between half seven and eight usually, and then I have to drag them out of bed. Training’s only ten minutes away, so we haven’t been late yet.” He picks at a piece of pasta from the night before, hard and stuck to the edge of the table. “I’m hoping I’ll have a good effect on them and they might start getting up before the last minute, but it hasn’t happened yet.”

“Yeah, but you’ve been here, what, a couple of months? You’ve all been in and out of the house as well, so now you’re all in permanently, it might have more of an effect.”

“If you say so,” George says, though it’s swallowed by a yawn halfway through. “I should go and shower.”

Then he’s leaving the room, and Owen’s by himself in the kitchen. He taps at the side of his cup, then gets up to rinse out his bowl. He’s nothing if not a good house guest.

When he’s back in his room, he checks his phone for messages – he’d been too conked out to do it before. Waiting for him is a _good luck big boy_ from Jamie, a _show them what you’ve got, but save some for me ;) xx_ from Georgie, and _say hi to your dad from me, and enjoy yourself_ from his mum.

He texts back a _thanks_ to each of them, then adds a _you bet x_ for Georgie. She’s his girlfriend, after all: he needs to make more of an effort for her. It’s 7:50 now, and the first three stages of the plan are complete. He just has to say goodbye and leave for the hotel – although that might be complicated by the unconscious state of most of the house.

Nevertheless, he goes downstairs and drops his bag by the door. _Can’t hurt to be prepared._ Someone’s shuffling around in the kitchen, so he sticks his head round the doorway. It’s Kit, blond hair spiky and unkempt.

“Hey,” he says, trying not to startle him.

Kit spins round, eyes wide, then laughs. “Fuck, man, I’d forgotten you were here. How’s it going?”

The other man stretches up behind him to get down a glass, and Owen’s eyes are immediately drawn to his – impressively ripped – torso as his shirt rides up. His mouth goes dry all of a sudden, and his brain distantly notes to tell George that he’s definitely had a gay thought now. Jesus Christ, why don’t his abs look like that?

“Uh, yeah,” he says when Kit coughs. “Ready for today. Excited, even.”

“That’s good. Fordy’s been doing enough worrying for the both of you. Have you seen him yet?”

Owen nods. “He showed me where the coffee was before he went for a shower.” Kit hums in response, and the conversation dies.

(Owen’s not going to ask about his abs; he’s not that desperate, or thirsty. He has a perfectly nice girlfriend waiting for him down south, and his own four-and-a-bit pack is respectable by anyone’s standards.)

Danny and Zak trudge down in the next five minutes, grunting their greetings and proving that George’s prediction had been correct. His friend appears a few minutes after that, slotting in beside Owen leaning against the counter and lightly mocking his housemates.

“I should go,” Owen says at last. His eyes have been flicking to the clock on the opposite wall every thirty seconds, give or take, and he knows he’s got just enough time left for five minutes of farewells, driving to the hotel, and five minutes of panicking in the carpark before walking into the lobby with five minutes to spare.

George pouts, and the other three look over from their slumped positions around the table. “Good luck, Faz,” Zak says, and Kit and Danny echo him. They seem genuine, too, which Owen appreciates.

“I’ll walk you out,” George says, once the rest of them have finished. Owen nods and leaves with a wave to the breakfasting trio.

He’s leaving now, and that means forty-five minutes until he arrives at _England senior men’s training camp for the 2012 Six Nations_. The jitters from the previous night are back in full force.

“Good luck,” George says finally, stopping to look up at Owen. “You’re going to be great.” It’s the confidence in his voice, the _be_ rather than _do_ , that makes Owen reach out for a hug. George wraps his arms around him, up on his tiptoes most likely. “Text me how it goes, okay?”

“Yeah,” Owen promises into George’s shoulder. “You’ll come and rescue me if I need?”

George scoffs, steps back. “Of course – not that you will. This is our turf up north, and that’s got to count for something.”

Owen laughs, tension diffused for the moment. “I’ll take your word for it, mate. See you soon.” He picks up his bag and opens the front door.

When he looks back from dumping his rucksack on the backseat, George is still stood watching, despite the freezing January temperatures and his inexplicable lack of socks. He holds up his hand in farewell, and George waves. It’s nice knowing there’s support of some kind nearby, if it all goes tits up.

Owen slams the door shut and takes one last look at George. Then he gets into the driver’s seat and turns on the engine. It may not be a game day, but he’s got his game face firmly on.

*

He pulls into the carpark two minutes ahead of schedule, and it’s a relief. Factoring in five minutes for freaking out feels a bit optimistic right now. He parks the car in the far corner, in a completely empty row. If his luck holds, nobody will see his panic before he’s got it under control.

Owen stares out of the window, searching for something to focus on, to anchor him. He’s gazing at a leafless tree, practising his breathing, when a car drives in front of it and disrupts his line of sight. Half a second off cursing the driver, they get out and he realises it’s Chris Robshaw.

He whacks his head on the steering wheel. Of course, the person to interrupt his panicking has to be the nominal captain. It’s not like it’s the pressure of it being an England environment that’s getting to him – it’s more that, in the age group setup, he was playing with the same group of lads for five years straight.

Now, he’s got to work his way into a team of men whom he’s played against maybe twice and spoken to even less. He’s chewing at his thumbnail, eyes blurry with anxiety, when someone taps on the car window.

He jerks back into his head and all the associated nerves. It’s Chris, standing outside and smiling at him, and can his day get any worse? He’s bright red, he just knows. Still – it’s got to happen at some point. He gathers his courage and opens the car door.

“Hi,” he says, praying for his voice not to crack as he gets out. “Chris, right?” _Yeah, because you’re not quite sure who this guy is. Moron._

“That’s me,” Chris says. After the comfort of solely northern accents for the last twenty-four hours, Chris’s southern accent almost makes him doubletake. “Faz Junior? Your Sarries boys have been talking you up no end.”

Owen shakes Chris’s hand, dying inside. “Have they?” he says weakly. He doesn’t want to be known as his father’s son, in life in general but especially not in a team his dad coaches.

“All the time,” Chris says, rolling his eyes to make it obvious he’s exaggerating. “Brad, Charlie – even Stevo. Won’t shut up about you in the group chat.”

Owen nods. He gets his bags out of the boot, closes it, and locks the car. His watch says he’s still supposed to be in his five minutes of panic, but he’s always known that the captain’s word comes above all else. He has to make a good first impression, after all.

He and Chris walk inside, a couple more players joining them along the way – Ashton, Mike Brown, and someone else who Owen isn’t completely sure about. He needs to brush up on his names, especially if he’s going to be ordering them around in the next couple of hours, or whenever training starts properly.

Their little group walks into the lobby together, Chris at the front and Owen awkwardly hanging off at the side. He doesn’t look like a complete newbie thanks to Chris’s intervention, but he’s not deep in conversation like the rest of them yet.

The coaches – Lancaster, Wayne Smith, Graham Rowntree, and Andy (Owen bites the inside of his lip, _don’t show weakness_ ) – are lined up along the wall, greeting each of the players. Stuart shakes Owen’s hand when it’s his turn, assures him that they’re excited to see what he can do, and Smith and Rowntree say the same.

“Morning, lad,” Andy says gruffly, and Owen can feel the eyes of everyone else in the room watching them curiously.

“Hey,” he says, hating every second. “Good drive up?” Andy rambles about the M1 for a few seconds before some kind of timer appears to go off in his head and he ushers Owen away.

He lets out a breath. Andy’s backs and defence coach, so they’ll have to spend a lot more time together, but hopefully it won’t be one-on-one. He’s fully prepared to hide behind Charlie – or any of the others backs, to be honest – to avoid having to meet Andy’s gaze.

Chris is handing out room keys to the guys who’ve already faced the coaches’ gauntlet, and Owen takes his obediently. “Hey, same as me!” someone’s saying, tapping him on the shoulder. He looks round. He’d already worked out that it was going to be a back, and most likely a scrumhalf, so seeing Ben Youngs grinning at him doesn’t come as much of a surprise.

“Hey, mate, how’re you doing?” Owen asks, going for a bro hug because that’s what everyone else seems to be doing.

“Good, mate, yeah,” Ben says brightly. “Excited for the new coaching setup, that kind of thing. You looking forward to being up with us big boys?”

“Big boys?” Owen says, looking down at Ben with half a smile. If it were George, he wouldn’t hesitate to make the same joke, but he doesn’t know Ben in the same way.

Ben huffs good-humouredly, and Owen’s glad his humour hasn’t missed the mark. “Alright, alright. How old are you anyway, twelve?”

“Twenty, mate.” He can see Ben’s eyes moving between him and Andy, the same mental maths that’s been going on for years running through his head. Thankfully, he chooses to keep his mouth shut – quite a feat for a scrumhalf, Owen thinks to himself.

The other boys are gradually moving out of the lobby down a corridor, and Ben tugs at Owen’s sleeve to make him follow. “Picking up the new kit first, then dropping everything off in our room,” he explains. “Then back down for a meeting, and then it’ll probably be lunch.”

Owen nods. Ben, for all his lack of height, seems to have decided to take him under his wing, and he’s grateful. He could get by alone, of course, but having someone who’s determined to be helpful glued to his side can only be an advantage.

The bags of kit are stacked up in alphabetical order, and Owen’s bag is between Dowson and Flood. The neat little _OF_ stitched on the label is nothing new, not after U16s and U18s and U20s, but it helps settle him a little – more than Ben’s mother hen tendencies, at least. He’s meant to be here, and it’s not an administrative mistake or nepotism.

(Honestly, he’d love to give a good talking to to anybody who thinks it’s nepotism. Him and Andy, they’re not like that – never have been, most likely never will be.)

Ben reappears with his own bag, and chatters away alongside him as they go up to their room. “How far was your drive?” Ben asks, unlocking the door. “It was two hours for me, but it’ll be longer back down at the weekend because the traffic’s worse on Sunday morning than Monday at arse o’clock in the morning.”

“Three hours,” Owen says once Ben’s talked himself out. Seeing him wince, he continues, “but I didn’t do it this morning. I came up yesterday, stayed the night with a mate who lives nearby.”

Ben drops down on his bed with a satisfied sigh. “That sounds perfect. God, do you have a little mafia network all across the north or something? You’re not even from round this way.”

Owen busies himself with unpacking and arranging his stuff; boots along the wall like usual, pyjamas under the pillow. “It was just a coincidence, really. We knew each other in Wigan, and then his family moved down south, across the road from us, and now he’s playing for Leeds.”

“That is a bit mafia-y, mate, you’ve got to admit,” Ben decides. “This guy just happens to have been in all the right places at all the right times – are you sure he’s not stalking you?”

Owen snorts, shaking out one of the training tops and refolding it to his satisfaction. “Nah, he wouldn’t do that. His dad was coaching at Saracens for a while, and he only moved to Leeds a couple of months ago.” He’s not sure why he’s spilling George’s life story to some guy he met half an hour ago, but he’s desperate to prove that he does have friends. It’s just that none of them happen to be here yet.

“Who’s his dad?” Ben asks, studying the England logo on his new jacket. It does feel like they’re making conversation for the sake of it now, but anything’s better than nothing.

“Mike Ford?” Owen tries. If he’s honest, he can’t remember where Mike went after Saracens – it’s entirely possible he’s ended up in Japan or somewhere, and Ben won’t have even heard of him.

“The fuck, mate?” Ben says. Owen looks round, and Ben’s sitting up with wide eyes. “Your dad literally took your friend’s dad’s job – he was defence coach until last month.”

Owen bites his lip. How he’d missed that one, he doesn’t know. God, and George hadn’t mentioned it at all. Either he was trying to be nice about it, or he genuinely didn’t care, or he was pissed off but wanting to avoid bringing up Andy. Maybe he should text George about it.

On the other hand, he could leave it. If it’s either of the former options, it’s not a big deal. Mike’s a good coach, anyway; he must have found another coaching gig by now.

“So who’s your friend?” Ben asks. “Can’t be Joe – I’ve played against him.”

“The middle one,” Owen admits. “George. He’s a couple of years younger than me, playing for Leeds in league.”

Ben blinks dramatically. “That’s – a choice. Did he not like union enough or something?”

“He did – played a year of U18s with the rest of the lads my age, and he’s fucking insane – but none of the academies were offering him a contract. Bradford did, like with Joe for a while, and that was it.”

Ben massages his forehead. “I don’t know how I never met this kid, mate. You’re telling me he was playing U18s with you when you were still a child and he was virtually a fetus?”

“He’s about the same size as you, actually,” Owen snarks. “But yeah, he’s incredible, just a bit small.”

“Alright, alright,” Ben sighs. “Is he going to be around on Sunday? I want to meet my new friend’s friend. He sounds _fascinating_.”

Owen matches his sigh. “I’m pretty sure he has a game, mate. And a life, for that matter.”

“Home or away?” Ben asks, grabbing his phone. Owen keeps his mouth shut. From the little acquaintance he has with Ben, he can tell it won’t make much of a difference either way.

A few minutes later, Ben’s found his answer. “It’s at home, against Hull Kingston Rovers.”

“KR,” Owen corrects instinctively. “It’s Hull KR, or Hull FC. Not Kingston Rovers.”

“Yes, yes, whatever,” Ben says. His eyes are gleaming. “Kick-off’s at three, and there’s still tickets left. We’d get there in plenty of time, wherever the stadium is.”

He smiles, shark-like, at Owen, and he knows there’s no way he can get out of this now. “Fancy going to a rugby league match, roomie?” He shrugs, and Ben whoops. “Perfect! It’s on me, this time.”

Owen merely turns round and gets on with his tidying. Nothing he can say will make a difference, and at least one of them’s happy. He makes a mental note to forewarn George, and then it’s time for the first meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr!](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com)


	22. Chapter 22

It’s fairly standard, as these things go – the new coaches talk about what they want to get out of the tournament, the new guys have to stand up and introduce themselves, and the schedule for the week is handed round.

Owen doesn’t have much of a chance to speak, but that’s okay for now. It’s more of an opportunity to observe, to figure out the dynamics he hadn’t already seen on TV. There’s a bit of niggle between Davey Wilson and Joe Marler, for example, though that might just be down to Marler’s conversational style.

He’s ready to leave with Ben at the end of the meeting to change for the first fitness session before lunch when Lancaster taps him on the shoulder. “Can I have a word, Owen?” he says, clearly not taking no for an answer. Owen waves Ben away and tries not to let his discomfort show on his face.

The rest of the room – even the other coaches – has emptied out before Lancaster speaks again, and he gestures to Owen to take a seat next to him. “You’re young, I won’t deny it,” Lancaster starts. “But that can’t stop you playing like you have been with Saracens, because we’ve picked you for that style. We need you to be yourself straight away. I need to hear your voice if you’ve got something to say, alright?”

Owen nods, then forces himself to speak. “Yes, sir,” he says. No _I’ll do my best_. He’s among the best; now he’s got to be better.

Lancaster claps him on the shoulder with a laugh. “Oh, you’re good,” he chuckles. “The other coaches are going to love it if you keep that up.” Owen stands up to leave, but Stuart’s still talking. “Do you call your dad sir as well?”

“I call him Andy,” Owen says uncomfortably.

Stuart smiles. “Very professional of you – although I shouldn’t have expected any less of a Farrell. Now, go and change. I’ll see you outside in five minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” Owen repeats, and hotfoots it out of the meeting room. The bus will be leaving the hotel soon to go to the training base a few miles away, so he needs to be quick.

He speeds into the room, startling Ben who promptly drops his phone. “Someone’s in a hurry. What did Stuart want?”

“Me to talk a lot,” Owen grunts, ripping his shirt off and pulling an England one on.

“That’s fair,” Ben says. “The rest of us don’t need telling – like a load of old grannies, but twice as loud.”

He’s too busy pulling on his shorts and trainers to answer. Three minutes left, he’s pretty sure. Enough time to nip to the toilet, grab his boot bag and a hoodie, and leg it back down to the coach. Can’t be late, not on the first day. Andy would literally (but hopefully not actually) kill him.

That’s the job of the fitness tests, after all.

They make it with thirty seconds to spare, and Owen’s beyond relieved to see a few more guys traipsing out of the hotel onto the bus behind them – and even more so when Ben pulls him down into a seat beside him. He’s never quite understood how people force themselves into friendships before, but Ben’s giving him a masterclass.

“Mate, have you met Dicky and Other Ben yet?” Ben asks, pointing to the pair of seats behind them.

Owen decides not to point out how the Leicester man has been monopolising all his time so far, and shakes his head. “Not off the pitch, no.”

“Well, here’s your chance,” Ben declares, kneeling up on the seat so he can see the two Northampton players behind. “Dicky, Other Ben – meet Faz Junior.”

Owen shakes hands with Lee Dickson and Ben Foden over the top of the seats. “What about Ben Morgan?” he asks, too curious to keep his mouth shut.

Ben scoffs. “He’s a forward – why should I care? Anyway, it’s his first time in camp so I haven’t had the chance to see if he’s worthy of being called Other Other Ben yet.”

“And nobody actually calls me Other Ben,” Other Ben clarifies. “Youngsy’s just been trying to make that happen for a while.”

“We actually call him Pop Idol,” Dicky chimes in. “’Cause he missed the first day of training in, like, 2005 because he was auditioning for it.”

Owen can’t hold in a snort. He can’t imagine doing such a thing, but then a rugby team has to be made up of all sorts. “What’s your name on the pitch?” That’s the most important thing for him, right now.

“Fodes or Fodey, pretty standard,” he replies.

Owen nods. He can remember that, and it at least conforms to the usual formula of rugby nicknames. “Anyone got anything more complicated?” he asks them. Might as well pick their brains and use the journey for something useful, he decides.

Dicky sniggers. “Hartley gets called ‘Chunk’ a lot, for obvious reasons. But, apart from that – no, I think everyone just has the normal ones.”

“Crofty, Colesy, Morgs, Robbo, Stevo, Woody, Wilso, Brownie, Baz, Strets…” Ben lists off, glancing around the coach. “Yeah, they’re not the most inventive, but they get the job done.”

Owen has a few more minutes to run through all the nicknames in his head, matching names to faces, before they arrive at West Park Leeds rugby club.

It’s bigger than he was expecting, for some reason. Five full pitches, from what he can see out of the bus window, and a huge clubhouse (probably bigger than the one at Saracens, if he’s being honest). Before he’s got much more time to stare, the boys at the front of the coach are getting off. He grabs his rucksack from between his feet. It’s a fitness session first off, but he still has a lot to prove.

Even with all the extra press-ups and burpees he’s been doing lately, the fitness tests are still vile. The sticky mud and driving rain only compound the misery, and a couple of players definitely throw up on the side lines during the shuttle runs. He gets his head down and pushes through. He’s younger than the rest of them and middle of the pack in terms of height, and his results need to reflect that.

He doesn’t quite get to the vomiting stage but it’s close. Ben squats down next to him afterwards and wordlessly hands him a water bottle. He wipes the top clean and takes a swig, He’s soaked on the outside but his mouth is parched, and he’s glad of Ben’s mothering tendencies.

“Hit the showers, then it’s lunch,” Andy yells. Maybe it’s a bit too loud, but the players are scattered all over the pitch in drooping groups of two or three, and Andy’s got to establish himself as much as Owen.

Ben yanks him to his feet and they trudge inside. The sprints were bad enough, sapping all the energy from his legs, but the burpees and all the explosive tests drained it from the rest of his body. He’s wishing now that he’d had more than just a bowl of cereal for breakfast.

Nevertheless, he manages to rinse off all the mud and dress himself in another of the unending training tops. Charlie slots in beside him and Ben on the way to lunch. “How’s it going, little Faz?” he asks, rubbing at his wet hair.

“Alright. Legs are going to fall off, but all good otherwise.” He likes Charlie, has known him at the club for years, but he’s not going to tell the truth to one of his main rivals for the ten shirt. Charlie was the go-to player while Jonny was injured, and now, after his international retirement, he must be gunning for the place.

“Glad to hear it, mate,” Charlie says, moving off to latch onto another group.

Owen queues up behind Ben to collect his lunch, then follows him out to the centre of the room. “Who’re we sitting with, then?” Ben asks. “I’d usually go with Manu and Floody, but they’re injured.”

Owen shrugs. He’d been relying on Ben’s ebullience to get them through this, and he’s not keen to take the lead just as he’s settled into a follower role. Most of the Sarries guys are – to put it bluntly – too old and established for them to sit with. “Brad?” he suggests. “It’s his first time too.”

“Sounds good to me,” Ben says, hustling over to the centre and introducing himself. Chris Robshaw joins their table too – Owen’s almost as grateful to him for the warm welcome as he is to Ben – and brings Alex Corbisiero and Dan Cole with him. There’s a lot of chat about how much the squad has changed that Owen can’t really contribute too, but he’s happy to sit and learn from their experience and opinions.

“What’s Farrell Senior like, mate?” Corbs asks with interest. They’ve all finished eating; the whole table is looking at him.

He pastes on a smile. “He’s a good coach. Hard, tough, but he gets the job done.”

Dan Cole pulls a face. “Can’t you give us something more to go on? You’ve got all the inside information, after all.”

“Um…” He bites his lip, stalling for time. What the fuck do they want to know? _He’d probably rather be watching league than me_ isn’t the most inspiring, and makes him sound like a bratty twelve-year-old.

“Does he prefer one or more defensive captains?” Corbs asks. “Because if it’s just one, then there’s no way I’m trying later. I haven’t got a chance.”

“At Sarries, usually just one, but then it can alternate,” Owen answers, relieved he can get away without a) spreading gossip about Andy and b) not betraying how strained their relationship is, at least from his side.

Corbs thunks his head on the table, and the others laugh. “I’m fucked,” he groans. “How am I meant to stand out when all I can do is scrummage and occasionally defend?” Chris pats him on the back, grinning, and the conversation moves on.

It’s the first contact training session after lunch – according to the timetable, they’ve got two more, on Wednesday and Friday. Owen’s seen these guys in action, felt their crunching hits on his own body, so he’s going into it eyes wide open.

Stuart hands out bibs as they file onto the pitch, splitting them into two teams. It’s stopped raining, Owen notes, but the ground underfoot is still distinctly squelchy. It’s going to be another messy couple of hours.

“It’s going to be Charlie’s team – the reds – against Faz’s blues,” Stuart explains from the head of the group. “Just bearhug tackles to start with, to warm you all up, and we’ll tell you when to start hitting properly.” He runs through the technical points they’ll be focusing on during the week, then sends them off for a quick team talk in their huddles before the match starts.

His team gather round, pushing close together for that last scrap of warmth. He’s got a good group, he decides – Corbs, Marler, Dylan (no way is he calling a man five years older than him _Chunk_ ), Mears, Morgan, Robbo, Ashy, Mike, Brad, Dicky, and a few others. He waits for someone to speak, but then realises they’re all looking to him.

This is his chance to stamp his authority on at least a third of the squad. He can’t fuck it up.

“Stuart says we’re focusing on defence,” he starts, gritty, “but what’s the best kind of defence?”

“Attack,” the team rumbles. It’s a basic concept, one they’ve all had drilled into them since minis, but maybe they do need to refocus on the basics after the shoddy World Cup performance.

“Yep,” he says, looking round the circle and making eye contact with each player. “We hit ‘em hard, and we keep pushing them back and back until they make a mistake and we force the turnover. Then it’s the same again – relentless. You in?”

Some of the doubtful faces have brightened, and he’s confident that he’s made an impression. Now he just has to deliver.

Charlie elects to kick off first, so fall into the traditional receiving pattern – backs back, forwards forward. A split second before he takes the kick, Owen sees Charlie’s shoulder drop, signalling the direction he’s aiming for.

“Mearsy, it’s yours!” he yells, hopping up and down on the spot. He’s too far away to take it himself, and he can’t be everywhere at once: that’s the point of being a team.

The hooker catches the ball neatly, and barrels into the red defence with glee, a charging bull. Simpson’s straight in to deliver the ball to Owen, who’s already scanning. There’s space in behind – Foden’s apparently forgotten how to play fullback in the last five minutes, but they need to build a better attacking platform first.

He takes the pass, spins it on to Ashy on the wing, then drops back into position. “Push it, lads,” he yells, and the team join in his shouting. Buoyed up by the noise, they force their way down the field, until the 22 is within touching distance.

“Brad!” he shouts, catching the centre’s attention and pointing forwards. “Blast it!” The other man nods, readying himself to run. Owen catches the ball and chips it neatly through the opposition defenders. Foden’s fully in the defensive line; they haven’t got a chance.

Completing the textbook Sarries move, Brad thunders through the startled defenders, picks up the ball off a perfect bounce, and dots it down on the try line. “Fuck yeah,” Brad cheers, grabbing Owen into a hug. “That’s how we do it, Faz!”

The rest of the team jog in to join them, patting their heads and grinning. It’s only the first training session, but it’s a new World Cup cycle leading up to 2015 and maybe they’re right to be hopeful.

The coaches had said not to bother with penalties and conversions, so Owen runs back to put the ball on the halfway line. It’s a minute break at most, but it’s long enough for Ben Foden to be given a bollocking by the rest of his team. Owen winces. If that’s what they’re like all the time, Stuart’s probably right to be bringing in fresh blood, he reasons.

“Let’s go, boys,” he shouts, ready for the restart. “Keep hitting them where it hurts. Make them work for it. We’ve got this!” He can see Charlie trying to rev up his own team in the other half of the pitch, but their heads have already dropped. It only makes him determined to motivate his team more. “Fuck them up, lads,” he yells.

Ashton whoops in response. “Let’s fucking go, lads. We’re going to crush them!” Owen grins at him and Ashton bares his teeth in response. It’s good to have someone on side who isn’t a Saracen or Ben.

The rest of the match is surprisingly uneven, given that it’s two halves of the same squad going at each other and one of them’s led by a rookie. Owen can feel his throat aching afterwards, but it’s worth it to win by such a big margin.

Ben sidles up to him in the big circle at the end. “That was terrifying,” he says, though he’s grinning. “Do you talk that loudly in your sleep? I might have to swap rooms if you do.”

Owen grins back, adrenaline flooding through him and staving off the cold. “Not usually. Could do with a cup of tea now, though.”

“I’ll make you all the cups of tea you want if I can be on your team tomorrow,” Ben says earnestly, batting his eyelashes.

“That’s not up to me, mate,” Owen answers with a smirk.

“Does Andy take tea as bribes? I’d totally do it,” Ben says, but the conversation is cut off by Stuart starting to wrap up the session.

Once Stuart’s finished, they break up to take a shower (again – Owen’s skin is going to peel off at this rate) and get warm. Owen’s in the midst of his team, talking over the top of Ben’s head to Ashton, when he hears Andy’s voice. _Shit._

“Can I have a word, Owen?” he booms, and the other lads start oohing like they’re thirteen, not thirty. He tells Ben not to bother waiting and hangs back for Andy. Whatever he’s going to say, it doesn’t need an audience.

Andy’s hand clamps down on his shoulder, and he fights an instinctive wince. “That was a good job out there,” Andy says. “Proud of you, son.”

“Thanks,” Owen gets out, and he’s so relieved Ben decided to ignore him and give an escape route. “Got to shower now.”

“Go on, then. You deserve it.”

Owen hurries away, shaking off the feeling of Andy’s hand on his shoulder. For himself, he’s glad it was praise rather than a telling off, but then it’s also dangerous that the nepotism claims could be made if Ben repeats what he’s heard.

“He’s right, you know,” Ben says, seeing the look on his face. “You did really well out there – a lot better than I was expecting, if I’m honest.”

Owen smiles in acknowledgment of the compliment. He’s suddenly overcome with tiredness; more than the usual post-training exhaustion, with a layer of emotional stress on top. Perhaps he can call Jamie if he has time later. He’ll know what to say.

The older guys of the team, more used to the intensity of international rugby, keep up a good volume of chatter and raucous laughter all the way through changing, the drive back to the hotel, and the strategy meeting before dinner.

Finally, they’re given leave to do what they want for half an hour before the meal. Ben’s making noises about going to hang out with some Tigers lads, and Owen’s very happy to let him go. A quiet, dark room to himself sounds perfect right about now.

He lets himself into the room, yawning, and faceplants on the bed without bothering to turn the lights on. What with it being January, the little light coming in through the window will be gone in a few minutes, but that’s fine by him.

Every muscle aches, and his throat’s still particularly sore. Taking that into consideration – maybe he should text Jamie, not call. If Stuart wants him to be that loud all the time, he’s going to have to take every opportunity possible not to talk, and that includes in his time off.

Owen digs out his phone, trying to engage as few muscles as possible in the movement. Georgie’s texted, saying she hopes it’s going well, and George has messaged about the weather a few hours ago.

_this rain’s disgusting – we had to train inside so we wouldn’t trash the pitch :(_

_Yeah, I’ve showered twice, it’s gross._

_As a heads up – my roommate (Ben Youngs) wants to go to your match at the weekend, so you might see a random short guy hanging around your changing room._

_He really wants to meet you, for some reason._

He puts his phone screen down on the bed, and closes his eyes. Ben will fetch him for tea if he’s late, he’s sure of it.

It’s not Ben that rouses him from his slumber fifteen minutes later, but his phone buzzing with a text from George.

_for some reason??!! RUDE_

_and yeah that’s fine, thanks for the warning – good to see you again anyway_

_Missing me already?_ Owen sends, half-asleep still.

The typing bubble appears and disappears several times before a text pops up.

_you know it :)_

He smiles, presses his face against the duvet for a second. It’s the kind of disarming honesty from George that he envies. George doesn’t go defensive, playing things off as a joke. He just – says what he’s feeling, in a way Owen has never been able to.

(He’s managed to convince himself of the value of it, at least, but he’s not quite at the stage of putting it into practice himself. Maybe soon. Next year, perhaps, once he’s got the important things like England sorted.)

 _Me too._ He hits send and has to bury his face in the covers again, bracing himself for an awkward response – or worse, nothing at all. He’s gone out on a limb here, for all that it’s two little words, and he’s already wishing he could take it back.

He should probably add this to the list of things he wants to talk to Jamie about – he’ll understand, hopefully, or he’ll empathise in that way he’s so good at. Ben’s nice and all, but eight hours as roommates does not a close friendship make.

His phone buzzes, and he leaps to check it.

_good x_

Owen exhales. Thank _fuck_ for that, honestly. If George had taken it weirdly, he’d probably have had to move to France, or Wales, or somewhere equally godforsaken. At the very least, he’d have had to stop watching league, and that would have been awful.

_See you Sunday then!_

_If I survive until then…_

_you’ll be fine m8_ , George replies, and Owen grins. He’s pretty lucky with his friends, all things considered. _growly scowly Faz can do anything_

 _Except be on time for tea, apparently_ , he sends, seeing the time at the top of the screen.

_lol gd luck with that_

He pounds down the stairs to the dining room, wincing as the numbers on his phone change to show 18:00. He’s definitely late now, and still a good forty seconds away. His legs are burning almost as much as his face is burning with shame. He’s such a twat sometimes.

Owen winds down to a walk in the last five metres before the door. The noise emanating from inside is loud enough for the whole squad plus coaches to be in there already – or just Marler and Wilson having a shouting match, on the other hand.

He goes in, nails digging into the palms of his hands. A few empty seats still; he might be okay, despite his tardiness. He goes up to the counter. Having food on a plate will make him seem less late, as well as the obvious bonus of eating after a hard day’s training.

He thanks the chef piling food on his plate and turns to survey the room. Most of the tables are full, with a few spaces left with the coaches (Jesus Christ, no) and one spare chair next to Ben (maybe he’s saved it for him, just maybe).

 _Come on, Faz, grow up_ , he tells himself, and starts walking towards Ben’s table. Ashy and a few of the other guys he was talking to earlier are on that table too – it’s definitely the best out of all the available options.

But then, when he’s almost there, Brad slides into the last remaining seat. He grinds his teeth. He’s glad to see his Saracens teammate getting along with people, but he’d also prefer it to be him in that chair instead.

Okay, so he’s got to adapt. He looks around the other tables. A load of Northampton and Wasps forwards are gathered at one table, and he’s really not in the mood for endless scrum banter, so he has to look elsewhere.

Chris has an empty space by him, and he’d be worried about sucking up to the (probable) captain more if it wasn’t his first day.

“Is this chair free?” he asks, nodding at it.

“Of course,” Chris says, smiling at him. “How’re you finding camp so far? Big step up, or not?”

The conversation does have an air of an older cousin reluctantly looking after the baby of the family who doesn’t have anyone else to talk to – overly specific maybe, but Owen’s been on the other side of that situation too many times in recent years – but he’ll take what he can get. He has friends beyond Ben, or he will do soon.

 _This is all the more incentive to make the rest of the U20s guys work harder_ , he thinks as Chris goes back to his previous conversation. _They need to come and rescue me from talking to old people all day._

“Hey, Faz Junior,” Chris Mears says from across the table. “Did you know I played with your dad in the World Cup before last?” He shakes his head, politely says that no, he didn’t. Inside, though, he’s fuming. _Hurry the fuck up, Jamie, and save me from this guy who’s basically Andy’s age._

*

The rest of the week goes well, in Owen’s opinion. Even though everyone’s got the measure of him by the second day and Charlie starts trying harder, he still makes an impression. Andy’s determined not to pick him for any other reason than pure merit, so he knows he has to work twice as hard – and he is, as proven by the calf strain he picks up on Friday afternoon.

It’s not too much of a worry – he’s pulled from the last three training sessions, but he’s confident that he’s left a mark in the coaches’ minds. Charlie’s good, and though his main competition in Floody is injured, he’s got to have shown them that he should be picked. He deserves it, and it would send a message out to anyone doubting – the World Cup is behind this England team, and they’re looking firmly forwards to their home tournament in 2015.

(Not that he’d tell anyone else, but he’d be content with being named to the bench, or out of position at inside centre. He’s happy to take what he can get at first, and then go from there.)

Watching training sessions isn’t half as interesting as participating in them, despite the umbrella he’s given to keep off the rain, and he can’t wait for Sunday so he can go home for a few days.

Ben’s just as excited, albeit for different reasons. “Faz, I looked up your little friend,” he says on Saturday night, “and he’s actually proper good. U18s at fifteen – fuck me, I thought, that’s impressive.”

Owen looks over at Ben, lying in the other bed. They’re killing time until it’s late enough to go to sleep, but he’s always up to talk about George (especially when he’s the authority, not like with Elliot or Jamie).

“Do you know where we met for the first time?” he says, grinning already at the memory.

“God knows. Oh, actually – you were playing rugby, he was about up to your waist, and you accidentally trod on him and dislocated his shoulder. It was in Wigan, though I don’t need to specify that.”

Owen rolls his eyes. “No, although he was pretty titchy. It was a league game – Wigan St Pat’s against Saddleworth, if you’re interested – and everyone noticed him because he was new, and so good.”

“Then what?” Ben asks. “You gave him mouth to mouth after he was crushed in a ruck and you’ve been friends ever since?”

“League doesn’t have rucks,” Owen says, for the first time wondering why he’s agreed to go with Ben to a league match. “But anyway… We just kept meeting, league and union, club and school games, and talked a bit more. Then he moved down south, and so did we, and just happened to be over the road from each other.”

Ben coos. “That’s so sweet! Basically a romcom plot, as well. _Two star-crossed lovers, one from league, one from union, forever united by a horrible accent and divided by the Midlands._ I’d watch that.”

Owen huffs. “Would it surprise you,” he says drily, “to find out that you’re the second person in a week to make that comparison?”

Ben splutters with laughter. “ _Mate_. That’s fucking funny. Whoever they are – great minds think alike.”

Owen turns off the lights, acting more pissed off than he actually is. “Well, he’s a league player as well, so maybe you’ve got your own romcom coming up.”

“I’ve got a girlfriend,” Ben whispers into the darkness.

“So have I,” Owen hisses back. “Now shut the fuck up.”

He hears Ben laugh quietly to himself, and rolls over to face the other way. Whatever. He’s dealt with worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What Stuart says to Owen after the initial meeting about wanting to hear his voice is actually what was said, if that’s of interest to you! I like using the little realistic elements where I can find them.
> 
> I'd love to hear what you thought about this, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).
> 
> Also (this is getting long-winded now), I’m posting a prompt fic later today, so I’d love if you’d give that a go too :)


	23. Chapter 23

Stuart and the other coaches seem as keen as the rest of them to clear out quickly on Sunday morning, so it’s a concise debrief before they’re all free to leave. Everyone’s going to be reporting to Pennyhill Park on Tuesday morning for Scotland prep anyway – there’ll be plenty more time to delve into the details later.

“As it’s my treat,” Ben says as they walk out of the hotel, “I’m driving, alright? I can drop you back here afterwards.” Owen shrugs and tosses his stuff onto the back seat. His new friend has a nicer car than him anyway, and he’s never been hugely keen on driving in cities.

Ben puts an address into the satnav and drives off with a cheery wave to the rest of the team. “Do you know what the stadium’s like?” he says, pulling onto the main road. “I’ve never actually been to Leeds before, so I haven’t got a clue.”

“I’ve been about three times, mate, so neither,” Owen says, looking out the window. It’s not raining for the moment, although the January clouds are still looming.

“But you never came to watch a match here?” Ben sounds disappointed. “I’d have thought, with your family, you’d be here all the time.”

“Most of my family play for Wigan, so we wouldn’t go to Leeds,” Owen says. He doesn’t want to be too blunt about it, but – why the hell would he go to Leeds to watch Wigan when the home ground was about ten miles from his old house?

Ben seems to take a while processing that revelation, and he’s silent until they arrive at the carpark. “Right,” he says decisively, and did Ben ever act in any other manner? “We’ve got time for lunch, and kick-off is at two, so we’ve got plenty of time.”

“For what?” Owen asks, confused.

Ben looks at him fondly. “For you to teach me how league works, dummy. I haven’t got a clue.” Owen sighs. The next two hours might just make the rest of the week look easy.

As it turns out, however, Ben’s a pretty quick learner. Rugby’s rugby at the end of the day. By the time they’re strolling into the stadium an hour before the match is due to start, Ben’s gassing away about sets and stand-offs like a born northerner.

“I just need to go to the loo,” Owen tells Ben. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Despite his instructions, Ben’s nowhere to be seen when he comes out again. He gets out his phone and calls him. There must be twenty thousand people milling around, and Ben’s shorter than average. He won’t have a chance of finding him otherwise.

“Ben?” he asks when the call connects. “Where are you?”

“By the – oh, hang on – the east stand, mate. I was getting a programme, and there was a sign for pie and chips, and I couldn’t not. We’re in the north!”

Owen screws his eyes shut. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Okay, stay where you are. I’ll come and get you, and then we can watch the warmups.”

He wriggles through the crowd until he sees the pie van. Ben’s just off to the side of it, scoffing down some chips and apparently deep in conversation with an old man with a flat cap. “Ayup,” Ben says when he sees him, grinning broadly. Owen wants to throttle him.

“Sorry to bother you,” Owen says to the man, pulling at Ben’s arm.

“Not a problem,” the man replies. “Always nice to have new fans around.”

“ _Sorry t’bother yeh_ ,” Ben mocks as Owen drags him away. “Your accent really came out then.”

Owen doesn’t deign that with a response. They’re nearly at their gate, and their seats are right down by the pitch. If they’re lucky, Leeds might be warming up at their end and they can yell at George. All he has to do is frogmarch Ben to his seat and ask one of the friendly stewards if they have any spare tape to stick him down with.

The larger part of his focus is taken up with keeping Ben walking in a straight line until they reach their seats, but then he can look up and see where the teams are.

Leeds are at their end. _Perfect._

The backs all seem to be clustered at the opposite side of the pitch, but one of them kicks a ball a bit awry and comes jogging over to collect it. Owen sees tattooed arms, and he grins.

“Zak!” he shouts. “Zak!” Ben’s looking at him like he’s the one needing a babysitter now, but he knows what he’s doing. Zak’s eyes flick over to them, and Owen yells again. “Zak, it’s Owen! Fordy’s mate from last week!”

Ben tries to pull him back into his seat. “Mate, you are off your rocker,” he hisses. “Sit down – people are staring.”

Owen bats his hand away. “You wanted to meet George, didn’t you? ZAK!”

The man in question recognises him then, and waves. “I’ll get Fordy!” he shouts, jogging back to the other side of the pitch. Sure enough, George comes running over.

Yellow and blue’s not really anybody’s colour, Owen reflects, but George somehow makes it work.

“Hi,” is all he has time to say before George is leaning over the barrier and hugging him.

“It’s awesome to see you, mate,” George says, breathing heavily. “Good week training?”

“Alright, yeah,” Owen says, beaming and pulling him in closer. “Rain sucked, but what can you do? Anyway-” he steps back – “this is Ben, my roommate. Plays for Leicester.”

“Nice to meet you,” George says, smile fading slightly.

Ben shakes his hand, and Owen can practically see the accent comment forming on his lips. He glares at Ben, and he seems to get the point. “Same to you,” he says eventually. “Good luck out there.”

“Yeah, he knows what he’s talking about,” Owen jumps in. “I’ve taught him all he needs to know in the last hour.”

George snickers. “Well, he’s sorted then. See you afterwards? Text me and I’ll come and find you.”

Owen nods, and then George is off, running back to finish his warmup. He sits down with a pleased sigh. “That’s George,” he says, not able to take his eyes off the small figure, decked out in yellow and blue.

“You don’t say,” Ben murmurs. When he speaks again, it’s louder, more brash like usual. “So just how many of this lot do you know? George and Wigan I get, but the tattoo guy?”

“Zak’s George’s housemate,” Owen says, taking the programme and flicking to the team lists and headshots. “I stayed with them last week, and Kit and Danny too.”

Ben whistles. “You have had a busy week, haven’t you? First England camp and meeting your guy’s mates, all in seven days.”

“He’s not _my guy_. We’re just friends. And I have a girlfriend.”

“Yeah, sure,” Ben says, folding his arms. “What’s her name again?”

“Georgie,” Owen says. He knows exactly what Ben’s going to think of that. He keeps his eyes firmly focused on George running through his kicking drills, so familiar form years ago.

“Hmm,” Ben says. “Sounds a bit fishy to me.”

_Set the ball. Two steps back, one to the side. Half-squat, look to the posts-_

“For fuck’s sake, I’m not gay!” he bursts out, and he cringes when he realises the spectators around them are staring at them. “I’m not homophobic either – I have gay friends – I’m just not gay.”

Ben holds his hands up in defeat. “Alright, mate, calm down. What I meant was – you two seem very close, that’s all.”

Owen crosses his arms over his chest. He’s not answering that, because Ben will keep dragging it out for the whole match. The whole match, and then for however long they’re in camp together for, and in every game they play against each other. He can’t react any more than he already has. He can’t give him any more ammunition.

They sit in stony silence for the ten minutes until the teams take the pitch once more for kick-off. Leeds huddle round each other, and Owen can’t help noticing just how small George is compared to everyone else. Objectively, he had known that he was going to be among the shortest on the field, and he’s played with him enough in the past to see the reality of it.

It’s something different about not being on the same team as him, not being able to step in to take up the slack or take the pressure off, that makes him so much more nervous than he’d thought he was going to be.

His heart’s in his mouth as George lines up to take the kick. He’s kicking, so that means he won’t be receiving (duh), but it also means there’ll be thirteen very large men running back at him in a matter of seconds.

The referee’s whistle goes – George kicks the ball – the crowd roars. Hull’s winger catches it, crashes into the Leeds line. Owen’s on the edge of his seat, even though nothing’s happened yet. Watching Andy or the other members of his extended family playing was never this stressful, in union or league.

“Faz,” Ben whines, pawing at his arm, “why’s George wearing six? I thought he was the flyhalf.”

Owen swats his hand away. “Different numbering system. Fullback’s number one, forwards are eight upwards.” He doesn’t have the attention span for this, although not completely alienating his new friend is still relatively high on his list of priorities.

A few sets pass, possession switching between the two sides. Owen can see Ben slowly getting more and more into it in his peripheral vision, but he only has eyes for George. He’s playing well; the same heads-up style as when they were kids. He carried the ball into contact once and made a few tackles, so he’s fronting up well enough.

Then, Leeds are gaining ground, pushing forward inexorably. The crowd are on their feet as the ball moves towards the try line, and Owen’s unknowingly risen to join them. He’s clenching his fists – _so close, so close, spread it wide, give it to the backs!_

He’d like to think it was some kind of telepathy causing George to do exactly what he was thinking, but it’s more likely that they’ve just had the same rugby upbringing. It’s a bit of a Wigan style of playmaking – that is, a successful one. Leeds flood forwards, and the loudspeakers announce that it’s Zak Hardaker, number one, who’s scored the try.

Owen cheers, turns to look at Ben. “Pretty good, huh?” he beams.

“It’s decent, yeah,” Ben says. Maybe he’s not quite as into it as Owen, but then he’s got twenty years of watching league to catch up on.

George is readying himself for the conversion now, and Owen’s focus narrows down only to him. He’s fifty metres away at most, and Owen finds himself syncing his breaths with George’s, running through George’s process in his head. After all their training together, it’s almost as natural as his own kicking routine.

The ball sails through the posts and he breathes out. 6-0, Leeds.

(He’d gone over the scoring system extensively with Ben earlier, so he won’t be disturbed now, at least.)

The rest of the match is just as intense for Owen, though he does let Ben into his little bubble of focus as the game wears on. Leeds win convincingly in their first home game of the season, 34-16. George’s kicks were all successful, and Zak scored a brace of tries.

All in all, a good day, Owen thinks as the team do their victory lap around the pitch. He makes sure to shout especially loudly when George and Kit and Danny are going past. It catches their attention, because all three of them split off from the main group to walk over to him and Ben.

“Hey, mate,” Owen says, accepting George’s hug. “Well played. You two as well,” he adds to Kit and Danny.

“Yeah, Kitten did good,” Danny says fondly, messing with his friend’s hair.

“Oh – lads, this is Ben,” Owen says as an afterthought, arms still wrapped around George’s shoulders over the barrier. “My roommate in England camp. Ben – Kit and Danny, and you know who George is already.”

Ben waves, a few metres back from their comfortable gaggle. “Nice to meet you lads,” he says, and if Owen were a meaner person he would have no qualms about absolutely ripping the _shit_ out of him for the half-Yorkshire accent his words take on. However, with George tucked into his side, he’s more inclined to be a good person.

“We should probably go,” George murmurs to him, low enough that he’s the only one to catch it above the crowd noise, “but do you want to come over later? You can bring Ben if you want.”

Owen shrugs, colder now George has detached himself from his side. “I’ll text you. Not sure what he’s doing, and he’s got to get home too.”

George shrugs, still smiling. “Alright. Good to see you both,” he says, and then he’s gone, taking his teammates with him.

He watches the three of them complete their lap, wandering round and waving to the fans. Zak runs up behind them, jumping on Danny’s back for the last thirty metres. Then they’re gone down the tunnel, and there’s nothing to hold his attention anymore.

“D’you want to grab some food?” he asks Ben, wrenching his eyes away from the pitch. The yellow and blue of the Leeds logo has grown on him over the last few hours. “I know you had chips earlier, but you haven’t lived until you’ve had a proper northern pie.”

Ben grins. “Sounds good to me. Did I hear us being invited round to Fordy’s place later too?”

“If you want,” Owen says. “Like, I don’t want you to feel obliged, and we have only got tomorrow off.”

“I’m a free spirit, mate. They seem cool anyway.”

“Okay.” Owen’s trying to hide his excitement. Another couple of hours with George, and he owes it to Ben for pushing him to go to the match and not just run back to Harpenden. Maybe he should try and be nicer to him. “We can go back to the car and I can find somewhere that does pies on the way?”

Ben snorts. “I thought you’d have some sort of inbuilt pie sensor. But yeah, that’s fine by me. We should probably drop by the hotel too, pick up your car before they think it’s been abandoned or something.” Owen nods. Trust the old guy to have the sensible ideas, honestly.

They have pies for tea – Ben is not particularly thrilled by mushy peas, Owen discovers to his disappointment – and then drop by the hotel to get Owen’s car. He drives back to George’s house, Ben’s headlights lighting up his rear-view mirror. Realistically, he knows he’s only going to get a couple of hours tops with the guys before he has to head home. It’s a three-hour journey back to St Alban’s, and he wants to be back by midnight. Still – he’s determined to make the most of it.

Assuming Ben isn’t going to stay without him there, Owen parks up on the end of the drive, behind the league lads’ shared car. Ben leaves his car half-on the pavement where he’d parked the week before, and they walk up to the front door together.

“They’re all fine,” he tells Ben while they wait for the door to be opened. “Danny and Kit are a bit much sometimes, but it’s all good.” From the look Ben gives him, he thinks they both know that he’s talking more to himself than to Ben.

Zak opens the door with a grin. “Hello again, lads.” Owen bumps shoulders with him on the way past, shucking off his shoes and straightening up again quickly. The muscle strain might be lasting longer than he’d hoped, based on the twinge in his calf. He brushes it off – nothing to be done about it now.

“You know, Faz,” Zak says, following him through to the living room, “you really should start paying rent if you’re going to be round this much. Don’t you have, like, a life?”

He hits out blindly behind him. “Yeah, and it involves going home in about two hours, so enough with your rent talk.”

Zak catches his fist with a laugh. “Shame. A few more quid in the holiday fund wouldn’t go amiss, right, lads?”

Kit and Danny look round from where they’re tangled up mid-wrestle on the floor, and George immediately gets up from his armchair. “Hiya, Owen,” he says, hugging him again.

(He’s going to have withdrawal symptoms from all these hugs when he goes back down south; that or Ben and Jamie are going to have to pick up the slack in a big way.)

“Took this one for pie and chips,” he says to the room at large. “Can you believe he’s never had mushy peas before?”

“And? I don’t think I was missing out,” Ben says defensively, and everyone else’s eyes glint. Maybe he realises too late that he’s in a room full of northern rugby players with a taste for salty, textureless peas, or he’s just feeling confident about his chances.

If he is, he shouldn’t be – Owen leads the charge, as the one with the greatest acquaintance with the offender, and Kit and Danny pile in after him. Ben’s pinned on the sofa, gasping for breath as Owen holds his upper body down and the others pinion his legs and tickle him mercilessly.

“Take that back,” Owen says darkly, pushing Ben further into the cushions to emphasise the point. “Mushy peas are a key part of northern culture.”

“And parched peas!” George calls over from his armchair, watching the carnage unfold with the air of an evil mastermind. “Don’t forget them.”

“All kinds of lovely boiled peas,” Kit growls. “All mashed and perfect.”

“You’ve got to say it, mate,” Zak says from the other side of the room. “Acknowledge the perfection of mushy peas, and then they’ll let you go.”

Ben’s squirming frantically now, but he’s 5’9 and trying to fight off three men at least four inches taller than him. He struggles valiantly on for another two minutes until he realises that there’s no escape. He’s powerless to resist, and only one way out is possible.

“Fine,” he pants, eyes darting between his three oppressors. “I take it back. Mushy peas are food of the gods. I’d rather have mushy peas than chocolate.”

“Shouldn’t be having chocolate anyway,” Owen says, sitting back on his heels and releasing Ben’s shoulders.

“Welcome to the house, mate,” George says cheerily, as if the previous five minutes hadn’t happened. “Always nice to have new faces, especially with these ugly mugs around.”

“Hey!” Kit and Danny protest as one. By way of distraction, Zak kicks the Mario Kart controllers to them, and they quickly set up a tournament. It’s a regular activity, Owen surmises from the manner in which they draw up a scoring system. They only have four controllers, so he opts out of the first round – throwing Ben in the deep end – and goes to perch on the arm of George’s chair.

“You did good today,” he tells George sincerely, both of them staring at the TV. “I couldn’t really tell it was your first proper match with them.”

George smiles up at him, knocks his head into Owen’s chest. “Thanks, mate. I was so scared before, especially because my dad texted me about five minutes before it started that he was watching back in Bath, but the rest of the lads made it easy. You know what it’s like, when everyone’s pulling together.”

Owen nods. It’s like that at Saracens – the team knows what has to be done, each of them committed to the collective goal, and he just knows that his young cohort of mates is going to go on to do great things for the club. It helps that they’re mostly all good friends, and hopefully George is going to be in the same situation at Leeds soon.

“How was camp, anyway?” George asks, nudging at Owen’s thigh. “You didn’t say much in your texts.”

“Well, I met Ben, obviously,” Owen starts, smiling at the memory of his continual mother-hen antics, “and a load of other guys that I’d played against but never properly spoken to. Training was good, though you know what the weather was like.”

“Pissing it down the whole week, you mean,” George grins, and Owen smiles ruefully.

“Yeah, pretty much. Bit of a calf strain the last few days, but nothing serious. I think it went well – what with Jonny’s international retirement and Floody’s injury, I’ve got a chance for the weekend. Inside centre if nothing else.”

“That’s great,” George says softly. “And – you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, I know it’s sensitive – but how was Andy? Did he bother you much, or could you steer clear?”

“It was… Weirdly okay, actually?” He hasn’t had much time to think about it while he was actually in the camp scenario, but it’s strange how little they interacted outside training sessions. “Like, he was all icky and _well done, son_ after the first days, but mostly he just kept it to rugby stuff. He doesn’t want people spreading rumours about me only being picked because of him, so he’s being extra careful about keeping his distance.”

“And you’re happy about that?” George checks. The others are all ensconced in Mario; there’s no chance of them being overheard.

He chews on his lip. “It made things easier, really. I was sure he wasn’t going to talk to me after the first few days, so I could relax more. He was never a dick, because we were always with other people. Yeah, it was uncomfortable overall, but it could have been so much worse.”

George rubs at Owen’s leg briefly. “That’s good. I was kind of worried about it, I’ll be honest, but I’m glad it worked out for you as much as it could.”

“Yeah,” Owen says quietly. “Me too.”

They sit together, not quite touching but almost, while the boys finishing ramming each other off the track and tossing around accusations of cheating in increasingly hysterical yells. It’s an easy coexistence which Owen realises he’s been missing since the Harpenden days.

Not having to plan anything or do anything or say anything – just being there, with each other. He’s glad to have it now, but he can acknowledge the cliché that he is truly missing it already. His hard departure time is in an hour, and then who knows when they’ll see each other again?

They’re both in the midst of their seasons at the moment, and Owen will be off to South Africa in June if everything goes right over the next six weeks. Then he’ll have a few weeks’ break, probably to be spent catching up with Georgie and apologising for being busy for the previous four months, and then preseason starts once more.

Then the union season starts, George’s season ends, and it’s Christmas and time for George to head north again like some very lost migratory bird. If they’re not careful, and Owen makes sure to assign the burden to himself in his head, they’ll let another year slip by, just like the last. He doesn’t know how they’re going to manage it, but he knows that he’s going to try like hell.

After ten more minutes of shouting, Ben is decreed the loser of that round, and Owen is dragged in to join the fray. He’s not the best at computer games but he’s competitive, and that’s got to be worth something, surely?

It’s not worth a lot, it turns out, although quick glances over his shoulder every now and then tell him that Ben seems to be getting on well with George. Both short guys doing pretty well in rugby – that’s a solid basis for a friendship if ever he’s seen one.

Owen loses in pretty short order, so it’s George’s turn to face the wrath of his housemates. He holds up better than Owen and Ben had. but maybe he ahs the advantage of knowing what he’s up against and having been subjected to the Kit-and-Danny double threat before. He’s good enough to beat Zak overall in the points standings, so the tournament is down to the final three.

Ben keeps checking his phone, and Owen guesses that he’s thinking about leaving. It makes sense; he has less of a connection with these guys that Owen himself so he’s probably just staying to be polite.

“Thinking about heading out soon?” Owen murmurs. They’re sat next to each other on the sofa – Ben should be able to hear him in spite of the enraged yelling coming from in front of them.

“Yeah,” Ben replies in the same low tone. “Bit of a drive back, especially after this week – although not half as long as yours.”

Owen nods. He has to agree with that. “You seeing your girlfriend tomorrow, then?”

“Yep. She’s coming round and then we’re going out for lunch. Got to make up for lost time, y’know. You?”

He demurs. “I think she’s busy – lectures and that. I’ll probably just be hanging out with Jamie before and after his training.”

“You think?” Ben asks incredulously. “You mean you haven’t checked? _Mate._ She’s not going to be happy when she finds out you’ve had a whole day off and didn’t bother seeing if she was around. Put in some effort, mate, honestly.”

Owen smiles tightly. Again, he’s been found lacking. As soon as he starts trying harder with his friendship with George, his relationship with Georgie is apparently suffering. Before too long, Ben will be diagnosing his neglect of Jamie because he’s been staying at Pennyhill Park rather than at their house and driving in each day.

In other words – he can’t help thinking Ben’s going a bit far, but then he is older and has more experience with relationships. He’s probably right, and Owen should defer to his judgement.

More than what Ben expects, though, is what people in general are going to think. Ross, his agent, has been on his back for the last few months, basically since the season started, to consider his public image more. He’s got a _rising public profile_ and he needs to _get ahead of the story_ and start helping Ross _shape perceptions_.

He’s not really sure how to do that, apart from having a reasonably attentive girlfriend – which had seemed to make up the bulk of the agent’s pleas. Georgie’s pretty, and sweet, and (most importantly, in Ross’s view) marketable. The hot young thing on the block already has a gorgeous blonde hanging off his arm – it’s what the people want and what they expect, Ross argues.

Owen’s satisfying Ross’s expectations so far, and he’s pretty sure Andy’s hopes for him align pretty neatly with his agent’s strictures. He’s not sure if it’s what he really wants, not that he’s had much time to think about it for himself, but he’s willing to do what’s necessary for his nascent career.

Kit’s shriek of triumph shakes him from his thoughts. He’s parading around the living room, arms raised in victory, while Danny and George grumble on the floor. “I told you once,” Kit crows, “and I’ll tell you again – undisputed Mario champion, defeating all comers! Suck on that, losers!”

George makes eye contact with Owen from where he’s lying on the floor, rolls his eyes. Owen grins back. They’re all competitive, of course, comes with the territory, but sometimes he’s able to let things go more easily. This, a case in point – Kit’s so clearly ecstatic, and Owen hasn’t had a chance to prepare at all save for a similar tournament the previous week. He can let this one slide.

“Sorry to interrupt the celebrations,” Ben says, shifting in his seat – a braver man that Owen, to disturb Kit in the thrall of victory, “but I think we’re going to head out. Long drive home, and all that.” Owen nods, a lump coming to his throat at the disappointment on George’s face. It’s a good thing Ben’s here, really – left to his own devices, he would have stayed all night.

“You don’t want to stay for the play-by-play analysis of Kitten’s win?” Danny asks, but he’s grinning. “Lucky you, is all I can say.”

Owen stands up, hauls George and Danny to their feet. “Maybe next time. I’d like to be back by midnight, if possible.”

“Fair,” Kit allows, dropping his arms to drape them around Owen’s surprised shoulders in a hug. “You gave it a good shot, though. Should practise more, but then I know you’re busy at the moment.”

“Just a little,” Owen laughs, and turns to accept Danny and Zak’s hugs as well. Ben, hovering behind him, is going for awkward handshakes and half-hugs.

Then George is left in front of him, and he moves forward to wrap him up in a tight hug. “I’ll be watching your matches,” he promises quietly.

“Me too,” George whispers back. “Ready to see you starting for England again.” Owen has to squeeze him closer at that, too stirred up to voice a response.

“Text me, okay?” he manages. “I want to know everything. I don’t want to miss out on you.”

“Yeah,” George breathes, pressing his face against Owen’s neck. “Yeah, same.”

They have to break apart eventually, once Kit and Danny (who else?) start coughing exaggeratedly. Ben reaches round Owen to pat George on the shoulder, and then they really do have to leave. The clock reads 9:05 – he’s behind schedule already.

He and Ben go out into the hall, the Leeds lads traipsing after them. “See you around,” Owen says, and Ben nods his agreement. He starts walking down the path, lit by the lights in the hall and the TV screen coming through the curtains, the four housemates almost spilling out of the door from how crammed they are into the doorway.

Kit and Danny have got white handkerchiefs from somewhere, when he turns around for one last look, pressing them to their eyes and fake-wailing. Zak’s rolling his eyes and waving, while George – Owen hopes it’s not just him projecting – seems genuinely affected by his departure.

He lifts his hand in farewell one final time, then gets into his car. Ben’s already in his car, lights turned on and reversing onto the road. It would be weird if he stayed any longer – he’s got a longer drive than Ben, after all, and he’s already said goodbye. Sitting in the semi-darkness and staring at George from the bottom of the drive is borderline creepy, so he sets up his satnav to take him home, texts Jamie that he’s leaving, and pulls out of the drive.

Three hours later, he still can’t get George out of his mind. He tries, with all the effort and distraction techniques he possesses, but nothing works – not even Georgie. Owen doesn’t know why he’s so affected by leaving George this time.

Eventually, though – once he’s tiptoed into the house, careful not to wake Jamie – he’s lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. George is still there, filling his vision when he tries to close his eyes. Running around the pitch, making breakfast, cuddled into him on the sofa – maybe he should be dreaming of England camp, but it’s George keeping him awake.

By sheer force of will, he manages to count enough sheep to send him off to sleep, soothed by Jamie’s gentle snores from the next room.

He’s going to get to the bottom of this. In the morning, though, or maybe after the Six Nations. He doesn’t want to throw himself off his game, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing this chapter, so I'd love to hear what you thought about this, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


	24. Chapter 24

Jamie’s up before him in the morning, and Owen drags himself down the stairs to the sound of his housemate’s tuneless singing.

“Morning, Faz,” Jamie chirps. “How’s it going? Tell me everything, come on.”

Owen makes himself a coffee, eyes half-closed, and lumbers over to the table. “Like what?” he grunts. “It was training camp, you know what that’s like.”

Jamie plops down opposite, rests his chin on his hands. “Okay, fine. What about George? You can’t tell me that you’re coming home late because you’re going to his house and then not tell me about it, mate.”

Owen slurps at his coffee. It’s too early for Jamie’s interrogation, and he’s sure it won’t be nearly as interesting as he’s hoping. “Well, I stayed over at his the night before camp, and I met his housemates. Zak’s nice, but the other two are a bit weird.”

Jamie’s nodding encouragingly, so he keeps talking. “Then camp was – well, tough, and it rained all the time. I was sharing with Ben Youngs, and he’s pretty odd as well. He did kind of bring me around with him though, which helped with meeting people and stuff.”

“So how did you end up going to watch league with him?” Jamie asks. “I can’t imagine he’s as nuts about it as you are.”

“We were talking about the drive up and how I’d stayed over instead of doing it on the Monday morning, and he wanted to know who I was staying with,” Owen says. This whole conversation’s got the air of a debrief or a post-game analysis, but he’s committed now. “I told him about George, and how he plays in Leeds now, and he decided we were going to the match at the weekend.”

“He’s yappy enough on the pitch – I hadn’t realised he was like that all the time,” Jamie says. “Sounds exhausting.”

Owen grins. “He’s not that bad, just a little overenthusiastic. We went to the game – Leeds won – and then back round to G’s after. Kit thrashed us all at Mario Kart, and then I came home. Got in just before twelve.”

Jamie takes Owen’s empty mug and goes to refill it. “George mentioned that his housemates thought you were dating?” His back’s turned so Owen can’t see the expression on his face, but from his voice he can guess it’s more cautious than gleeful.

He sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, they did, though George was pretty quick to shut it down. Ben was going on about it too, independently. Apparently Georgie and George are similar enough for suspicion, in his book.”

Jamie’s stopped stirring the coffee, when Owen looks at him again. “How did that make you feel? For me, that’s kind of a dick move, but I know it’s different when it’s actually you in the situation.”

“I mean…” Owen starts. Then he realises that he doesn’t know what he’s trying to say, and stops. How did it make him feel? Like, it’s annoying to keep having people assume he’s gay, and then George saying there’s no way and almost taking the choice away from him is frustrating, because what if?

All that ‘Owen’s never had a gay thought in his life’ stuff, and then the revelation of Kit’s abs, all in the space of about twelve hours, as well. He’s not gay, Georgie ( _not_ George) is proof of that, but he might like a bit more nuance to the situation.

George’s crush on him back in the day, as well – he’s not even begun to process that.

“I know all the stuff you went through with Andy makes it difficult to talk about this,” Jamie says tentatively, “so it’s okay if you don’t want to.”

Owen shakes his head. Andy hadn’t even come into his mind, all the time he spent with George, so that’s not the proverbial cat that’s got his tongue. He just – doesn’t know how to put everything he’s feeling into words.

“It’s nothing to do with him,” he says at last. He’s finished the coffee while he was mulling, so he stares at the dregs swilling around the bottom of the cup instead of at Jamie. “It’s more that – oh, I don’t know. Rugby players don’t have to be straight, I know-” Jamie’s nodding in his peripheral vision- “but I do, and everyone’s so definite that I am, and it’s just…”

“What if you’re not?” Jamie picks up where he left off. “That’s perfectly fine too, I promise. People can have all these expectations for you, and that’s on them. It’s all in their heads. You’re the only one that can say for definite with these things, okay?

“Andy might think one thing, and George might think another, because they’ve had certain experiences or something, but at the end of the day, it’s about you and what you think. Not to be rude, but fuck them. They don’t know, not really.”

Owen scrubs at his eyes. He’s not sure when they started watering, but he’s close to spilling over into tears now. “How come you know so much about all this stuff?” he says miserably. “You’re so sorted with sexuality stuff, and I’m still on square one.”

Jamie avoids eye contact, picking at a hangnail. “Well, for starters, my parents weren’t homophobic twats, so I could think about it a lot earlier. I had a mate going through similar stuff at the same time and we had loads of conversations about it. I don’t know – it’s just easier when you have someone you trust to talk to, and we figured out a lot of stuff together.”

“So you’re…?” Owen asks. It’s yet another one of those things he’s not sure whether he’s allowed to push on, but Jamie’s using a lot of vague language and he’d like to think they trust each other. Still, he keeps his eyes on the table. It’s less pressuring like that, he usually finds.

“Pansexual,” Jamie answers, quickly enough that Owen doesn’t feel guilty. “A bit like bisexual, but it just gives me different vibes, y’know? Guys, girls, whoever – if they’re hot and funny, I tend to like them.”

Owen nods, and stretches out to grab Jamie’s wrist, stopping his incessant tapping. “Hey, thanks for telling me, mate. It’s cool with me.”

Jamie smiles, though he looks tired all of a sudden. “It’s alright. I was kind of planning on telling you soon, but I wasn’t thinking it would be today.”

Owen smiles back. “So – your mate? Did he come to the same conclusion as you?”

Panic flashes in Jamie’s eyes. “Hang on, Faz. I just need to call someone quickly. I’ll be back in a minute.”

He hurries out, phone clutched in his hand, and Owen’s left with an empty kitchen and an empty cup of coffee. Slowly getting up to make some actual breakfast, he mulls over what Jamie’s just shared with him.

It – makes a lot of things make sense, really. The whole gay group chat thing, to begin with. He can’t find it in himself to be irritated anymore that Jamie’s included and he’s not, when Jamie’s not straight too. Jamie having an encyclopaedic knowledge of the gay scene of several northern cities – he’s got a stake in that too, and he’s not just being a good friend.

Jamie being so protective of Elliot when he’d come out, and – _holy shit._

Owen feels like he’s just stumbled over the biggest conspiracy theory of them all. Jamie knew about Elliot’s sexuality before then, and they’re so close. What if Elliot was the friend Jamie was talking about?

He’s still mindlessly stirring at his porridge, shocked and confused and impressed by the way he’s managed to fit the puzzle pieces together, when Jamie comes back in. He’s got his laptop with him now, as well as his phone, Owen notices, and he takes his seat at the table again.

He’s not sure how this turned from a casual chat about his week to Jamie looking like he’s about to give a presentation, but he’s willing to roll with it and keep his mouth shut.

“Right, mate,” Jamie says, before pausing to steady himself. “I don’t know how surprised you’re going to be by this, but Elliot was the guy. I didn’t want to keep having this conversation without checking in with him, so is it okay if I get him up on Skype?”

Owen nods his agreement, and a call comes through from Elliot barely thirty seconds later.

“Morning, Faz,” Elliot says, waving through the screen. He’s looking just as tense as Jamie, if not more.

“Hi, mate,” Owen answers. He’s got a bit of a weird feeling about this now, like Jamie’s set up a Q&A session for _people who aren’t really doubting that they’re straight but are annoyed that their straightness/gayness keeps being assumed_.

“So,” Jamie says significantly, taking the lead because really, he’s the one that’s orchestrated this whole impromptu meeting. “Me and Faz have been having a chat about stuff, which somehow ended up in me coming out to him and saying how you helped me with figuring it out.”

Elliot nods, and Jamie keeps going. “Now, we both know how it happened, but do you want to talk him through it, El? Go as far as you’re comfortable with – you know what I think.” Owen rolls his eyes. He’d thought this would be the end of the cryptic comments, but apparently not.

“Once upon a time,” Elliot starts with a grin. “Nah, it wasn’t like that. We were in the Midlands regional team together from – well, you were thirteen, I was just twelve but filling in for some injured guys. We were good mates from then, and then by the time you were in U15s and I was in U14s, you were starting to have some – _feelings_ , shall we say, towards a guy on your team that weren’t strictly friendly. And one day you cracked and started blubbing down the phone to me about it-”

“That is _not_ what happened, Faz,” Jamie interjects. “I was very calm.”

Elliot snickers. “Whatever. We had a chat, and I already knew that I wasn’t straight, and things were kind of sorted from there. I’m okay to keep going?” he checks in with Jamie, who nods stiffly.

“So we were both out to each other when we were fourteen, fifteen, and I already knew that I liked him in a non-platonic way,” Elliot says, eyes flicking between the two of them.

“Big word,” Jamie notes, light tone at odds with the way his hands are clamped on the edge of the table.

“Shut the fuck up,” Elliot says fondly. “Anyway, I stuck my neck out and asked if he wanted to go on a date. He then freaked out for two days-”

“I was busy!”

“-before texting me back and saying yes. I took him to the zoo, and it was apparently a good enough first date that he’s hung around ever since. Love you, mate.”

“Love you too,” Jamie says thickly, before turning back to Owen. “So, yeah. We’re dating – have been for a while.”

Owen forces himself to pick his jaw up off the floor. “That’s what – five years? Six years? I can’t believe I didn’t notice.”

Elliot scoffs. “Nobody has, apart from Fordy. He picked up on it in about two weeks. He’s got good gaydar, that kid – not your fault, Faz, you just had straight blinkers on.”

Owen flinches, and Jamie rests a calming hand on his arm. “Hey, love, we’re not making straight jokes about Faz anymore, okay?”

“Why? He can’t take them?” Elliot asks, raising his eyebrows.

“No,” Jamie says patiently. “He’s just not 100% sure, and it’s not fair to confuse him even more.”

Elliot visibly relaxes. “Oh, shit, okay. Sorry, Faz, I just assumed – with the girlfriend and all, and you’ve never said anything.”

Owen shrugs, uneasy. He’s been through the wringer with this the last few days, people assuming one way and then the other, and now the news of Jamie’s relationship with Elliot, which has apparently been going on for half a decade under his nose – if this is what it does to his head, maybe he’s better off ignoring it all. He’s supposed to be back in England camp in less than twenty-four hours, after all; no time for this in that scenario.

“Yeah, well, we’ve had a bit of a chat about it this morning, so we’re not going to be making those assumptions anymore,” Jamie says tersely. Then his face brightens. “Hey, do you remember that night, ages ago, just before George went up to Bradford, when those two were cuddling on the sofa and we were talking on Skype-”

“And Faz said that he was still straight and then you went and started talking about friendship groups that start straight and they all turn out to be gay, and I had to cut you off before you said anything? Yes, _dear_ , I do remember it,” Elliot says snippily, though he’s smiling.

“Mmm,” Jamie says, matching his grin. “But I was right, though, wasn’t I? Even if Owen’s only 1% not straight, it still fits.”

“Alright, love,” Elliot says. “I need to get ready for training now, but talk soon.” He blows a kiss to the camera. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Jamie says, so tenderly Owen gets a lump in his throat. He genuinely doesn’t know how he managed to miss this for so long, and he feels awful for making them hide it – especially Jamie, in his own home.

“Well, there you go,” Jamie says, focusing on shutting down his laptop. “Me and El are dating.”

Owen leans back in his chair. “Congrats, mate, really. It must be pretty special to have lasted this long.” He can see Jamie sneaking glances at him out of the corner of his eye, so he makes sure his happiness is visible on his face. “And I’m not pissed you didn’t say anything – I get that it’s difficult to talk about some things, sometimes.”

Jamie puts the laptop down on the side, comes up behind Owen and hugs him. “Thanks, mate. We were thinking about it for a while now, telling you, but I wasn’t totally comfortable with coming out and Elliot was happy to wait for me.”

“Aww,” Owen says, in part to lighten the mood. (It is also genuinely cute.)

“But you know, if we are being honest about things,” Jamie says, clearly not getting the message, “I wasn’t only talking to El about this kind of thing, and other stuff too. You know Mick, the welfare guy at Sarries? He was so relaxed about everything – literally whatever I brought up – and that was good for me. You might want to try it. Just a thought.”

Then Jamie’s out of the room, going upstairs to put his laptop away if the footsteps on the stairs are any indication, and Owen’s left with his thoughts. Elliot and Jamie dating, two of his closest friends – aside from being genuinely happy for them, he’s struck by the realisation that, knowingly or not, Billy’s dickish comments had been completely correct. What it’s felt like for Jamie, he can’t imagine.

But also, it’s not the first time Jamie’s brought up the idea of him going to the counsellor, or the psychologist, or whatever the guy’s official title is.

He would, maybe, if he convinced himself it was worth it. The main sticking point is – what if it gets back to Andy? His dad’s not technically left the Saracens setup, and it’s possible he could come back after the Six Nations. If he starts going to see the guy and Andy finds out, he’s going to be in so much shit.

He wouldn’t be in danger, like he’d been worried about after the incident with George a few years before, because he’s got a salary and a place to stay now. It would be more his career in danger – if Andy could get word round, nothing Ross and Owen could say would make a difference to him getting a contract.

Established players coming out or getting help or doing anything outside the norm is one thing; a guy on the fringes of the professional game is another thing entirely.

And really, he doesn’t feel hugely overwhelmed, or depressed, or messed up in the myriad of ways that could warrant talking to someone. Even without the risk to his career and everything else – he’d just be taking up time that someone else could be using better – someone who actually needs it.

Jamie potters back in, looking like he’s standing on steadier ground now. “Big talk over, or you want to keep going?” he asks. Owen’s not even out of his pyjamas yet – it’s a fair question.

“I’d like to have a shower at some point,” he says, gesturing at his outfit. “But also – I haven’t got anything else to do, so do you want a coming out cake?”

Jamie grins crookedly. “If you _really_ have nothing else to do, I don’t see why not. We can’t go making a habit of this, though – I was planning on making you one for your first England cap, and we’ll both be the size of a house if we have two whole cakes between us in a fortnight.”

Owen stands up, rifles through the cake tins they have stacked in the cupboard. “Well, it can be a small one,” he allows. “As long as we have enough colours for the rainbow.”

“I don’t think so, mate,” Jamie says. “We’ve got the primary colours and a few more, and that’s it.”

Owen strokes his chin. “Is there a pansexual flag? That might work.”

“Wow, you have done some research,” Jamie smiles. “It’s pink, yellow, and blue.”

“Fine,” he decides. “Sponge cake with a third of the mix pink and a third blue. I’ll go have a shower, and then crack on with that.”

“Alright, mate,” Jamie says, cracking his back and yawning. “Elliot’s going to be expecting a bi cake now, though – and George’ll want a rainbow one, when I tell them.”

“Bring it on,” Owen grins. “As long as I don’t have to eat all of them, I’m up for it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say hi on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com)! I hope you all have a good week :)


	25. Chapter 25

He’s named in the starting fifteen for the weekend, at inside centre next to Charlie at ten, Strets at eleven, and Brad at thirteen. Whether it’s a deliberate choice by the coaches to surround him with Saracens on his first start – first cap, even – or not, it helps settle him. Ben’s the starting scrumhalf too, so it’s a sea of familiar faces around him.

Ben sticks to his side, as usual now, on the way up to Murrayfield. The rain’s lashing against the windows the whole time, and nobody’s hopeful for a quick game. At least this way, Owen concedes as the wind batters him on the way into the stadium, all their training and prep work in the horrible conditions in Leeds and at Pennyhill won’t have been wasted.

Before the match, Stuart keeps emphasising the lack of pressure on them. They have seven players earning their first international cap today, and this Scotland team only have one. They’re playing away, in Murrayfield, and absolutely nobody is predicting their win.

“Go out and have fun,” he instructs, the last words of his speech. “Show ‘em what you’re made of.”

Then Chris is gathering them into a captain’s huddle, and Owen’s stomach is roiling like a boat in the high seas. Maybe he should be better prepared for this, after the coaches told him on Wednesday that he was going to be starting. Still, there’s nerves crawling up the inside of his throat in a way they haven’t for years – not even before his Sarries debut.

Chris finishes his spiel – Owen hadn’t heard a word – and they line up to go out onto the pitch. Up ahead, Owen can see the lights have been turned off, and the huge flamethrower-things have been employed instead to fire up the spectators. He shifts from foot to foot, conscious of the TV camera about three feet from his face. This is no time to mess up.

 _Don’t look like a pussy_ , Andy’s voice echoes in his head. _Let them see you mincing around like that, and the match is half-lost already._

No. No nerves, not even invisible ones. He’s trained for this. He’s ready – otherwise they wouldn’t have picked him.

He’s got to do this, for all the people watching. His mum’s in the stands with his sisters, Gabe too young for the racket of an international rugby match, and Jamie and Elliot and George and Georgie have all texted that they’re watching from home. He’s doing this for them, as much as for himself.

Word comes that it’s time to jog out onto the pitch. He stares at the back of Ben’s head in front of him, following along behind. His head’s a swirl of diagrammed plays and new calls. Now, though – even as the cauldron of Murrayfield envelops him, accepts him into its turmoil – everything goes quiet.

Anthems, strip off the top layer, a couple of jumps to engage the legs, then assume the position for kick-off. Charlie’s kicking to start the match, thank God – but he’s getting ahead of himself. He slots in between Ben and Brad for the anthems, wrapping his fingers tight in their jerseys. He can do this. He knows what’s going on.

Bagpipes as instruments of war – he’s never understood it until now, but the braying of the bagpipes and the yelling of the crowd sends a shiver down his spine. Perhaps he is being overconfident, thinking he’s coming onto their turf to win.

Ben digs his knuckles into Owen’s arm as they break up after the anthems. “You’ve got this, mate,” he yells over the din. “They chose you, bla bla bla. Just do what you do for Sarries, and you’ll be fine!”

Hoping against hope that Ben’s right, he finds his position, just to the left of Charlie on the halfway line. “Good luck, kid,” Charlie says with a twinkle in his eye as the ref comes up to him. “You only get your first cap once – make it a good one.”

He nods fervently, wiping his hands one last time on his shorts, and then Clancy’s blowing the whistle and Charlie’s dropping the ball and kicking it and Owen’s chasing up the field, already shouting instructions.

The noise of the Junior World Championships final was nothing compared to this, and he has an irrational fear that he won’t be heard over the screaming crowd. While they wait for the first scrum, Charlie makes sure to look over and give him a thumbs up.

It settles him. They’re in a good attacking position – Ben will get the ball out, pass it to Charlie, who will then give it to him or Brad, depending on Scotland’s defensive line. It’s just patterns, scanning, and heads-up rugby. It’s what he’s been doing for years and years, and it gives him confidence.

Sure enough, Ben snatches the ball from the base of the scrum and spins it out to Charlie. The flyhalf takes a few steps, draws a few defenders, then slides the ball across to Owen. In the moment, he doesn’t even have time to think _first international carry_. He just grabs the ball out of the air, jinks slightly to one side to put the defender off balance, and crashes into contact.

Flip over on the floor, present the ball long. Then Ben’s there, whipping the ball away, and he’s up on his feet again. Ten minutes gone, and no major disasters yet. He can breathe half a sigh of relief, but then it’s back into the game.

Scotland kick two penalties before halftime to Owen’s one, going in 6-3 ahead. Stuart’s relentlessly positive in the changing room, emphasising the fluidity of their play after only two weeks together. He claps Owen on the shoulder on his way back out into the tunnel, murmuring a quick, “Nice one, Faz.”

He can grin and enjoy it for now – Andy’s nowhere to be seen.

It’s not even thirty seconds into the second half when they’re pressing the Scots in defence, pushing them back into their 22. The scrumhalf fires the ball back to Parks, who goes for the clearance kick. But England are pushing, pushing, and Charlie gets the charge down and chases the ball back over the try line to score.

Owen’s right there with him, hauling him off the floor and grabbing him round the ribs. Brad and Ashy join their little huddle within seconds, and a few forwards trickle in at a slower pace. The TMO deliberates over a possible knock-on over the line for what seems like an age, but Clancy gives it in the end. The England supporters’ cheers might be mostly drowned out by the Scottish boos, but he’ll take it.

The crowd is whistling and the Scottish players try to put him off with their charge down, but he’s in the zone now. Something’s clicked. The two missed penalties in the first half – out of his mind. He kicks, knowing it’s a successful attempt before his right foot even hits the ground again, and England are up 6-10, virtually at the start of the second half.

Charlie’s subbed off for Turner-Hall after sixty-one minutes, and Owen’s told to shift across into the flyhalf position. It’s almost more nerve-wracking than the start of the match, now, because he’s in his natural position at last. The expectations are higher, even though he only has little over an hour of international experience.

Ben goes off a minute later, and Brad follows at seventy minutes. He doesn’t want to be dramatic and say that he feels alone all of a sudden – he’s not reliant on these guys – but the support feels reduced. Mike, Dicky, and Jords are all good lads, but he hasn’t yet got the same level of trust as he does with his clubmates and Ben.

Regardless, he keeps pushing. Nothing really happens until seventy-three minutes, when Scotland give away a penalty in the ruck. He’s not entirely sure why, but then he doesn’t care. It’s an opportunity to kick to the posts, to put his team seven points – a full score – ahead. With the way Scotland have been playing, and the time left in the match, it should close the game out for England.

He takes the kick. 6-13, and the Scottish players have come to the same conclusion as him. They don’t even bother trying to charge the ball down, instead watching him from inside their 22. The kick is good, and the crowd roar. Owen yells at the team, urging them into one last effort to take them to the finish line.

It’s back and forth in the middle of the pitch after that, nobody troubling either team’s 22. Then Scotland are launching an attack up the wing – Owen glances at the clock, already in the red – and he’s screaming at Strets and Mike to get there, to shove the ball into touch.

A few forwards get there first, somehow, and the ball spills out of Scottish arms. Owen’s right there with them, and he instinctively kicks the ball out. It’s grubbing along the ground, nothing spectacular, but it gets the job done. The forwards instantly release the Scot at the referee’s whistle and turn to Owen instead, grabbing him in a squeezing, breathless hug.

“Fucking yeah!” Strets shouts into his ear. “Good fucking show, little Faz!” His sentiments are echoed by the others, turning the air blue around them. He lets himself sink into their hugs and pats for five seconds, then pulls away. Time to shake hands with the losers, and console them with a generic _good game, well played_.

They form a tunnel for the defeated, hangdog Scottish players, and then it’s their turn to walk through, accepting the applause of the vanquished and then peeling off to do a lap of the pitch. Most of the Scottish fans have filtered out of the stadium already, leaving the England supporters to come to the front and cheer as they walk past.

Ben’s ribbing him about his two missed penalties, ignoring his explanation that they were both from fifty metres and _it’s windy, Ben, be nice_ , when he hears a familiar voice. “Owen!” his mum’s calling, and he can’t pretend to ignore her. She drove up to Murrayfield with his two teenage sisters in the car; that alone deserves recognition, let alone all the shit she puts up with from him and Andy.

“Hang on,” he tells Ben, and jogs over to the barrier. “Hey, mum.”

Colleen leans over the low wall and hugs him, apparently heedless of the mud on his shirt. “Well done, Owen, well done! That was so impressive.” If it was anybody else’s mum talking, he’d write it off as well-meaning but ultimately misinformed praise. His mum, though – she’s probably seen more rugby, what with her own family as well as the Farrells, than half the current England team. She knows what she’s talking about.

“Thanks,” he says, squeezing her gently. It’s hard to measure how hard the hugs are straight after a game – he’s been told off more than once for crushing people, especially when the girls were younger and whinier. “It was – yeah, it was good. I enjoyed it.”

He looks at Gracie and Elleshia over his mum’s shoulder. Gracie shrugs, though Elleshia’s smiling slightly. “Good game, big brother,” she says reluctantly, and Owen grins. He’s not normally one for playing favourites, but she’s edging the competition at the moment.

He can hear Ben’s yelling in the background, and he knows it’s time to go. “Are you staying around until after?” he asks, cuddling his mum closer while he still can. He’s twenty years old and he’s allowed to miss his mum sometimes, sue him.

“Probably not,” she says, face filled with regret. “It’s a long drive home, and the girls have school in the morning.” His sisters look even grumpier at that, if that’s even possible. “We need to go and pick Gabriel up from your grandparents too, so we’ll be shooting off as soon as we can.”

He nods, sighs. He understands the logic, even if he’s not happy about it. “Okay. I’ll see you soon, then.”

“Love you, Owen,” his mum says softly. “I’ll tell your dad to give you a hug from me later.”

He can’t stop a shudder. “Please don’t.”

She strokes the side of his face. “Oh, sorry, would that embarrass you in front of all your new friends? Alright then, I won’t.”

He forces a smile. At least she came up with a reason for his revulsion – he’s not sure that he could have, or at least not fast enough to avoid suspicion.

(How she hasn’t picked up on their tense relationship, he doesn’t know, but he’s not going to bring it up now.)

“Okay, darling, we’ll be off now,” Colleen says decisively. “Make sure you get enough sleep, and don’t let them pressure you into anything you don’t want to do. I know what these rugby lads are like, and you’re still so young.”

“Yes, mum,” he says, obediently kissing her cheek. “Bye, kiddos.” Elleshia waves, and Gracie flips him off behind Colleen’s back. She’s definitely not his favourite, he decides.

“That was sweet,” Ben coos. “You’re a right little mummy’s boy, aren’t you?”

“Better than anything to do with Andy,” Owen says darkly, suddenly frustrated. He’s probably just exhausted after the match and all the emotional stress of the day, but he’s not in the mood for Ben’s teasing now. When he gets into the locker room, he’s going to check his phone for all the nice texts from his friends and Georgie, and they’ll distract him.

He doesn’t get that far, though – half a step into the changing room and someone’s dumped a bucket of ice over his head. From the spluttering ahead of him, the same treatment’s been doled out to the six other newbies.

Owen brushes the ice out of his hair, a full-body shiver rippling through him. He’s wet and muddy and tired already – did they really have to do that? When he straightens up, it all becomes ten times worse.

Andy’s stood there with his camera, clearly having recorded the whole thing, and the RFU president is next to him with a stack of caps, chortling. He sighs. Rugby lads are not a whole lot of fun to be around when you’re not in the mood, he knew already, and this just reaffirms it. He wants to go back to the hotel after a hot shower, and talk to his friends and call Georgie. Scraping ice off himself was never factored into his plans.

With as much dignity as he can muster, he walks over to his stall and sits down on the bench. Brad next to him is shivering just as much, and Owen presses their legs together. It’s penguin logic, and he feels cold enough for it to make sense. Brad flashes him a grateful smile despite his chattering teeth.

Stuart gives the short version of his post-match speech after that, and yields the floor to the RFU president. Fuck, Owen’s cold, and he doesn’t even register that it’s his turn to go up to receive his cap the first two times his name is called. Brad pokes him, already back from his handshake and photo, and he lurches to his feet.

Lactic acid, ice, and generalised anxiety aren’t a great combination in any situation, and he nearly falls over about three times on the way to accept his cap. He bares his teeth next to the president, who seems more shocked about the temperature of his hand than anything else. Then he’s back on the bench next to Brad, pulling a jumper over his legs. Shit, if this goes on any longer, he’s going to catch hypothermia.

Soon enough, though, the dignitaries are leaving. The post-match dinner’s in half an hour, so Owen can add lack of food to his list of complaints. “Come on, up you get,” Ben murmurs, hauling him to his feet. His boots have been taken off at some point, he notices dimly, though his socks are still bunched up around his ankles. “Shower time for you, before you actually freeze.”

Owen follows him obediently, stripping off his shirt and shorts when Ben tells him to. “Now, in the shower, and remember to take your pants off first,” Ben says, pushing him into a cubicle. “And don’t put the water on too hot,” he calls through the door. “You’ll burn yourself!”

“Yes, mum,” he retorts with the last of his energy. Swaying, he gets the last of his clothes off – even his left sock, which is gripping on to his foot like it’s about to be taken to the scaffold and executed. Fuck, he’s knackered.

“Not too hot!” Ben shouts again, apparently from the shower next to him, and Owen makes sure to turn the temperature down first. He ignores the clouds of steam coming over from Ben’s cubicle; he’s used to having one rule for Owen and one for everyone else after years living with Andy.

Annoyingly, Ben is right, and he slowly increases the temperature of the shower until he feels like a functioning person again. He looks up – a towel has appeared over the top of the shower door, and he tugs it down. Perhaps his guardian angel is just a short, gobby scrumhalf from Leicester.

Once he’s dried and dressed (the guardian angel hadn’t supplied clothes along with the towel, so he’d had to go back out into the cold air of the changing room half-naked), he takes the opportunity to look through the messages on his phone.

Georgie’s sent a _so proud baby xxx_ and a string of more X-rated texts which he quickly clicks off. They’re more appropriate for later, in the privacy of his hotel room, than in a crowded locker room surrounded by a team who won’t hesitate to rip the shit out of him.

George has apparently messaged him a running commentary of the match, lapsing into exclamation marks periodically. Jamie’s sent a photo of Elliot in front of the television, thumbs up and grinning. He’d forgotten it was an off week for the Premiership, so he’s glad they’re getting some time together for once – and that he’s not in the house for it.

A few of his other mates have texted too, but he can save those for later. Now, it’s finally time for the meal. Ben drags Owen over to sit with a couple of the Scottish guys he knows somehow, and Owen spends most of the main course being taught about the Glasgow-Edinburgh rivalry.

It’s clear that none of the losing players want to talk about the match, so he’s happy to let them take the lead while he stuffs his face. It’s his first cap, and the entire match was played at under five degrees – he’s allowed, for once.

Eventually, the captains get up to deliver their speeches. Chris makes sure to get a joke in about Owen’s age, and he tries to avoid the gazes of the whole room. He can’t shut out their laughter in quite the same way, but it’s something.

Anyway, hadn’t he shown them what he can do? Okay, a 60% conversion rate isn’t fantastic, but he’d created opportunities alongside Charlie, and his team had actually made the most of them, unlike the Scots.

He zones out for most of the rest of the speeches, preferring to focus on his dessert. He hasn’t had chocolate cake in ages – maybe since his birthday – and he decides to ask Jamie to make his England cake a chocolate one. It won’t be that hard, just a sponge cake with white icing and some red on it. Nothing compared to the lengths he’d gone to for Jamie’s coming out cake, of course.

(In his defence, the piping bags he’d found in the cupboard were just begging to be used, so he’d piped – shakily, but legibly – _congratulations ur pansexual_ around the edge, over the stripes of the flag. Jamie hadn’t stopped laughing about it for hours, and Elliot had messaged his approval too.)

Then, at long last, the dinner is over and they’re free to go. Owen shakes the hands of Ben’s Scottish friends and goes back down to the locker room. He only has to pick up his kit bag and make his way back to the coach, and then it’s practically time for bed. He’s twenty, not two, but he’s excited for it.

It would have been simple enough, if not for Andy looming out of the shadows in a random corridor on his way out to the bus. “Good job, son,” he says, voice gravel-low. “Made me and your mum very proud.”

“Thanks,” he says, trying not to squirm under Andy’s gaze. “The lads helped a lot.”

Andy nods, comes a bit closer like he’s angling for a hug. “Don’t let them take all the credit. You did well.”

Owen takes half a step back. It can’t look like he’s retreating, or Andy will go off. There’s nobody around – no Ben to stick his stupid guardian angel nose in like last time.

“How’s Georgie, anyway?” Andy asks, switching tack so suddenly Owen’s left reeling. Then it dawns on him – this must be a reminder of what’s expected of him. Play well, but be a proper man off the pitch too. Top of the list is a girlfriend, of course.

“She’s good,” he gets out, faking a smile. “I’m going round to hers on the day off.” He’s not, but Andy doesn’t need to know that.

From the satisfied smile on Andy’s face, it’s what he wanted to hear. “Good, good. It’s important to remember, now you’re getting more famous – don’t let it get to your head. Don’t go off the rails, or do anything stupid.”

Owen knows exactly who’s definition of _stupid_ they’re talking about here, and he nods. Anything to get out of this situation.

Then – three minutes too late, but otherwise perfectly timed – Ben’s voice comes floating along the hallway. “Faz?” he calls. “Faz, where are you? All the boys are waiting!”

Owen looks at Andy in panic, and his dad shoves him roughly forward. “Go on,” Andy says. “Stop messing around and making everyone late.” Nodding, he stumbles away, following the sound of Ben’s voice.

“You alright?” Ben asks as Owen rounds the hundredth corner into the reception area. “We lost you for a minute there, and your eyes have gone all…” He tugs at his cheeks as if to show how wide his eyes are.

“Yeah, fine,” he mumbles. “Let’s go.”

They’re not the last onto the bus, but it’s close. Ben shepherds him into their usual seats, halfway down the aisle, and he slumps into his window seat with a sigh. He’s not a wimp, but something about Andy flicks a switch in him and he’s automatically ready to submit, however much he hates himself for it. It’s a preservation instinct, most likely, but that doesn’t meant he has to like it.

He resolves to mention it to Jamie when he replies to his text, but he’s asleep almost before the coach leaves the carpark.

The spectre remains in the back of his mind, unaddressed and ever-present. Fatuously, his unconscious asks, _how much worse can it get?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


	26. Chapter 26

The rest of the Six Nations passes without incident, and Owen feels like he can breathe again when the news comes that Andy’s remaining in his new position instead of returning to Saracens. It’s not much – less everyday interaction with more intense spurts of a few weeks at a time, but it’s something.

Sixty-three points in five international games, and helping Sarries through to the Premiership semi-finals – maybe it’s more of a surprise than it should be when he takes the call that he’s wanted for the South Africa tour in June.

Jamie’s ecstatic when he hears, almost more excited than Owen himself. “You’ve got to get me a souvenir,” he says, hugging him tightly. For such a momentous occasion, the kitchen of their house feels a little underwhelming, but Owen will take it.

“Like what, biltong?” he asks, hugging back. He knows Jamie will catch the fond subtext.

“I mean, that works,” Jamie says, though he’s wrinkling his nose. “I was thinking maybe a small rhino, something like that. Do they have rhinos in South Africa?”

“No clue, mate,” Owen laughs. “Although, hang on – we’re meant to be going on a safari on one of the days off, so probably. Doubt I’d be able to fit one in my suitcase, though.”

Jamie pouts. “Whatever. I bet Elliot would get me a baby rhino if I asked him.”

“And that’s why you’re dating him, not me,” Owen counters, setting his friend down in favour of scrolling through the agenda.

“Among other things. Now, what other fun stuff do you get to do?” Jamie hooks his head over Owen’s shoulder to see his phone screen.

He reads through the schedule. It’s a lot of training, obviously, with a few days allocated to the nebulous concept of _rest and relaxation_. The safari’s one of those days, but the coaches are apparently content to let the others remain a mystery. Owen’s used to hotel pools and being released into whichever city the team happens to be in for a day, but the senior team must get something more structured than that, surely.

Jamie sighs, stands up again. “Such a jetset lifestyle, mate. Meanwhile, me and El will be trekking up to Leeds to take George clubbing. It’s not exactly comparable, is it?”

Owen wants to protest, to argue that at least Jamie will be with friends, but then he stops himself. He knows Jamie’s jealous – he would be himself if the situation was reversed, even though they play in completely different positions – and he doesn’t want to rub it in too much.

“Probably better for the body, not being beaten up by rabid Saffers every week,” he offers eventually.

“Maybe not the liver, though,” Jamie replies, and he seems to have perked up a bit.

That’s another advantage of gay clubbing that Owen hadn’t considered before – even with his modest public profile, he highly doubts anyone would recognise him in that kind of environment. Not that he’d be going with the intention of being recognised, of course, he’s perfectly happy with Georgie and happy to avoid scandals for the moment, but it would be nice to have a break from tending to his public image for a few hours.

Still, he can’t be ungrateful. Rugby is his life, and the success of the team – whichever one that may be – comes first. Missing out on time with his friends or his girlfriend is a sacrifice that has to be made, and he’s just glad that most of his close friends play too, so they would do the same.

The only sticking point is Georgie. She’s happy for him, and supportive as ever, but she’s starting to make noises about moving in together once she’s graduated and started working. She appreciates the clout of a rugby player boyfriend, he knows, not least from the times she’s paraded him in front of her friends like a show pony. Getting a house together is the logical next step in their relationship, and he can’t live with Jamie forever. What’s cute at twenty is annoying at twenty-one, and he’s already worrying about having overstayed his welcome.

Besides, moving in with Georgie would make Andy happy – well, both his parents, but he knows whose opinion really counts – and he’s willing to do most things to get Andy off his back. Owen doesn’t make his decisions entirely based on what his dad will think, but it’s always a consideration.

He manages to stall the discussion for a while, citing how busy he is with training and packing and all the admin tied up in touring abroad. Georgie comes to the pre-tour Barbarians game and he scores seventeen points in the win, and then he goes back to hers. Some nice photos for her Instagram and some quality time together – what more could she want?

It’s the last quality time she’s going to get with him for a while, given how long the tour lasts. The first match is in Durban in the second week of June, and the third Test is on 23 June. It’s perfectly timed to miss Gabriel’s first birthday, which he’s sad about, and to have the indignity of ‘celebrating’ Fathers’ Day while in camp, which he’s irrationally terrified for.

Being out in South Africa is pretty cool, even if it’s the third time he’s visited while on tour. Senior tours do have a bit more of an edge to them, more media and day-to-day attention, than a bunch of teenagers wandering out the back streets of Cape Town.

He and Ben are stuck together as roommates yet again, so Owen’s days are filled with the scrumhalf’s yelling, his evenings are occupied by his chatter, and he’s usually lulled to sleep by Ben’s whiffling snores. The whole squad’s wrapped up in each other, living in such close proximity that it’s almost stifling.

It’s easy enough to forget the claustrophobia out on the pitch, though. Despite the drawback of it being winter in the southern hemisphere, the sky stays clear for the first few days of training. They’re up in the mountains, getting some high-altitude practice in to attempt to negate the natural Springbok advantage. It may be more of a mental help than a physical one, and Owen finds himself appreciating the scenery more than his increased red blood cell count.

There’s none of the distant traffic noise that comes with Pennyhill or Saracens’ training base or any of the other clubs he’s passed through over the years. The closest comparison he can think of is the park at the end of the road in Harpenden, trees deadening the sound of the cars that did dare to drive past. It’s peaceful, and he can concentrate more easily in spite of the increased pressure of it being an England tour.

On the other hand – it might just be that he’s settling in and finding his feet in this new team. Obviously, there’s more chopping and changing than would happen in a club side, especially with injuries, but over time the ‘Faz Jr’ jokes have tailed off, and nobody’s mentioned his age in weeks. The respect which he’s earned over the Six Nations is carrying him through the first few days in South Africa too, smoothing his path.

In fact, the path’s seemingly so smooth that he’s named at ten for the first Test. With Floody back from injury, Charlie’s out in favour of the young pretender, and Owen can’t find it in himself to feel bad for the guy. He’s old, only a few years out from retirement, and this new World Cup cycle is meant to be about blooding new players, not easing old ones into international retirement.

That’s something Jonny Wilkinson got right, he thinks. He knew when it was time to go and jumped before he was pushed.

(It helps that Jonny’s international retirement almost certainly created the space for his promotion. He’s always going to be grateful for that.)

So, Owen’s the starting flyhalf, with Ben pairing him at scrumhalf. It’s a familiar enough setup, especially with Brad at inside centre. Robshaw’s captaining yet again, and Stuart’s still banging the drum of no expectations. It’s harder to believe this time – second in the Six Nations has to count for something.

Still, game day dawns wet and windy, with no expectations apparently being heaped upon their shoulders. The only adjustment necessary to make during warmups is to impress upon everyone the importance of making short passes, given the blustery wind. The speed of the South African backs would allow them to intercept any long, looping passes and sprint away to score, and that can’t be allowed.

It’s a blur, up until the very moment Steyn takes the kick-off. Owen briefly has the memory pop into his head of having to do sixty press-ups during the World Cup because of that same flyhalf’s drop goal, but he pushes it away. He has a game to manage.

The first penalty goes England’s way, after Etzebeth doesn’t roll away. It’s an easy enough kick, six minutes in, and Owen knocks it over gratefully. Then they swap penalties in the back and forth of the match, up to 6—6 after half an hour. Steyn gets the chance for a final three points just before half time, but the wind catches the kick and draws it off to one side. Owen’s arms ache in sympathy.

Straight from the kick-off, Ben’s up in the Springbok 22, probing at their defence with some sniping runs from the base of the ruck, and Owen’s screaming, alternately urging him on and telling him to stop messing around himself and give the ball to the backs out wide. Nothing comes of it, though, and the match is just settling back into its rhythm when Steyn scores in the forty-seventh minute.

The England huddle while Steyn sets up (and misses) his conversion is bullish, Chris exhorting everyone to push and give it their best shot. “We’re doing all the right things,” he shouts over the crowd’s booing, “we just need to link up a bit more. Come on, boys!”

Owen doesn’t want to be defeatist, but it’s hard to see how they’re going to ‘just link up a bit more’ within the next half hour. His point’s proven within ten minutes when De Villiers touches down. Steyn misses, _again_ , and it’s South Africa 16, England 6.

He’s not panicking, as such – Farrells don’t panic, he knows full well – but the game’s slipping from their grasp. Two more penalties, as much as he can do, takes the score up to 16-12. Fifteen minutes, and he’s the most anxious he’s been in an England shirt. He’s playing at centre now, having moved across to make room for Toby, so he’s not technically in charge, but he knows who all the papers will be blaming tomorrow.

Seventy minutes on the clock. 19-12 on the scoreboard after Steyn finally kicks a sodding penalty.

Then England are awarded a scrum in their half, and Owen slots into his channel with a feeling akin to relief. It’s all on the forwards now to deliver. It’s not his fault, whatever happens next.

(He knows he’s spiralling, in a way he hasn’t on a rugby pitch in a decade. But, just as much as he knows it’s happening, he can’t stop it.)

South Africa draw the penalty. The scrum is reset with Springbok ball. Doran-Jones collapses the scrum and South Africa choose to kick the penalty this time. Owen doesn’t want to look too anxious, what with all the cameras surrounding them, but it’s hard not to.

22-12, two minutes left. It’s not going to happen, he’s sure of it. It won’t be his first loss for England (thanks, Wales) but it’s the first where he’s had such a big role, such an opportunity to change the course of the game and not taken it. He feels sick. Everyone watching at home, at the club – even Andy, a few hundred metres away. They’re all going to be calling for his head.

Stuart swaps Brownie for JJ, virtually signalling the concession of the match to the South Africans. But JJ isn’t as beaten down as the rest of them, revving them up and shouting encouragement. Owen finds himself buoyed along by the enthusiasm, and somehow, by some miracle, Foden goes over in the corner.

He checks the clock. Time’s up already – they’ve lost, whatever happens with the conversion. Out on the right touchline, he tries to steady his breathing and regain some calm. With the cacophony of whistles and boos raining down around him, though, it’s not happening.

He misses the conversion. 22-17 South Africa at the final whistle, and the crowd goes wild.

Owen wants to melt into a tiny puddle on the floor. It would be less painful than what’s waiting for him in the locker room.

Handshakes, a quiet huddle, then trudging back inside. He doesn’t know how Stuart’s going to react. He’d had the same kicking success rate, 80%, in the Wales match too, so he’d been spared the worst of the head coach’s wrath.

Now, though, he had been responsible for more than just kicking, and he’d properly fucked it. The flyhalf’s role is to see space, create opportunities, and lead the team. JJ had shown more leadership in the two minutes he was on the field than Owen. God, he’s definitely going to cry when he gets in the shower.

Ben plonks himself down next to Owen on the bench, nudges his leg with his knee. “Head up, Faz,” he murmurs. The changing room is near-silent, so it’s easy to hear what he’s saying. “First match of three, and they’ve got home advantage.”

Owen wants to yell at him that home advantage shouldn’t mean anything – they should have been good enough to beat them regardless, and they all ballsed it up. He can see Andy lurking behind Stuart though, and he settles for digging his fingers into his aching thighs. He’ll have all the unpleasant thoughts in his head spewed at him in about four minutes’ time by Andy, so it’s not worth giving himself a bollocking too.

Andy’s had more practice at it, after all.

Stuart’s surprisingly calm about the loss, reminding them of their brighter moments and the potential shown. “We’re going to do a fuller analysis tomorrow,” he promises, “but tonight you should relax. Try and decompress, so we’re all in a healthier mindset in the morning.” If that’s the plan, Owen’s going to hide in his room all evening and bar anyone but Ben from entering. He can’t face Charlie and Toby’s disappointment, let alone the rest of the team’s.

Slowly people start to move, the end of Stuart’s speech filtering through to tired brains. Owen begins unlacing his boots, hoping he can drag it out for long enough that Andy will be pulled away by one of the coaches or another player – anyone, really, he’s not picky.

His guardian angel – both the metaphorical one and Ben – seems to have abandoned him today. Ben’s off to the showers in an instant, and Ben Foden on his other side has done the same. His only allies could be Ben Morgan (why are they all called Ben?!) at eight and Brad over in the twelve stall, but they’re too far for a subtle appeal.

Too late, anyway, he thinks with dread. Andy’s making his way over already.

He’s shaking hands with the other guys as he moves along the bench, but Owen just knows that he’s not going to get away with such an easy let-off.

Sure enough, Andy’s grasping at his shoulder and hauling him to his feet. “Come on,” he mutters, and he can’t do anything but follow.

He’s chewing on his lip so hard that, when Andy finally releases his shoulder and spins him into the wall, he bites down in surprise and draws blood. Shit, that’s going to be hard to explain to the medics.

“What the fuck was that?” Andy demands, using his tiny height advantage to loom over Owen. His eyes are dangerously dark, just centimetres away from his face. “We chose you for a reason, and that performance was not it. Jesus Christ, Owen – grow a backbone!”

He forces himself to stand up straight. No cowering; he can save that for later, in private. “It was a team effort,” he says. Hopefully the rest of the guys won’t mind him throwing them under the bus for his own safety, metaphorical or not.

Andy scoffs, breath hot on Owen’s face. “Yeah, we all believe that. Or were we watching different games? JJ did more in two minutes than you did in eighty.” Owen braces himself against the wall, but Andy’s not done yet. “I told Stuart to bring you off after an hour, you know, but the old sap wouldn’t let me – said you had to have a chance. But I was right, wasn’t I? I know what you’re like, Owen.”

He keeps eye contact, no matter how much his insides are rebelling. Jamie’s grinning face and the 1% possibility bubble up in the front of his mind, and he shoves them away. Andy doesn’t know him, and he never can.

“Nothing to say for yourself?” Andy taunts. “Well, I’m not surprised, after that match. I think I heard you say about three words all game. Fucking hell, Owen, pull yourself together.” With one last contemptuous look, he’s leaving, sweeping off down the corridor and leaving Owen to slide down the wall into a heap.

Bloody hell, he’s such a fuckup sometimes. When everything’s going right, it’s plain sailing and he can ride the wave for as long as it lasts. As soon as something goes wrong and the tide starts reversing – he crumbles. It’s not just Andy saying that; he knows it’s true. Every time, he starts doubting and panicking and stressing out instead of doing his job properly and he makes it all worse, for the whole team.

He’s supposed to be helping the team, not holding them back. At Saracens, there’s usually enough momentum to claw back a win, but this England team aren’t as sure of themselves yet and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

Andy’s telling him all this stuff because it’s true, anyway. He wants Owen to improve, and it’s just unfortunate that the only way he knows is tough love. He’s doing it with Owen’s best interests at heart.

Slowly, he gets up, wiping away his stray, unnecessary tears. These emotions don’t help him get better. They just keep him locked in this cycle. Sometimes – usually when Andy’s reminded him of it – he manages to almost switch off his emotions, like a robot. He might not reach the heights of his best rugby in this shut down mode, but it’s clinical enough to stop him falling so low as well.

After today’s match, a few less emotions and a lot more training might be what he needs to get back on track.

He shakes his arms and legs out, cramping slightly from being sat in one position for so long. Shower, get dressed, meal, hotel, bed. Checking messages can wait until the morning, when he’s fully out of this pathetic mindset. Crying home to Jamie isn’t going to help anything.

He showers automatically, not caring if the water gets in his eyes. It’s the least he deserves after that performance. Then he gets dressed, nodding when Ben asks if he’s okay. If he’s acting differently from normal, then that’s a good thing. He should never have been so friendly in the first place, allowing himself to be distracted. He’s here for rugby, not a holiday.

Then the meal happens. Owen doesn’t taste any of it, too busy estimating the calories in each serving. The last straw is when they bring out some milk tart thing for dessert. The rest of his table are tucking in, but he can’t let himself do it. All that fat and sugar – not today.

Ben pokes his leg under the table. “Mate, are you sure you’re okay?” he murmurs. “Have you got a bug or something?”

Owen almost laughs. If only he did – that would explain his awful performance nicely. “Just tired,” he whispers back. “Going to get an early night.”

Ben nods, apparently satisfied. Fuck, it’s embarrassingly easy to fool everyone. If Jamie or Elliot or even George were here, they’d spot what was going on and get him out of it, for better or for worse. As it is, the only person who would be able to see what he was doing – Andy – wouldn’t care, and would probably encourage him to keep going.

Perhaps that’s good, what he needs right now. Robot mode is all well and good after matches, but it’s during training and games that it has the greatest effect. He needs to keep pushing with this, or he’s going to get dropped and tossed back to Saracens before the tour ends.

Ben obligingly shepherds him onto the coach and into the hotel, depositing him in the room. “I’m going to go and hang out with Lee and Crofty,” he says quietly, watching Owen tucking himself under the covers. “I’ll be back in an hour, but text me if you need anything, okay?”

He nods, lying down and closing his eyes until the door clicks shut behind Ben. The lights are off, but that’s fine. He doesn’t need to see for what he’s doing.

Muscles groaning – _weak_ , he chastises them – he gets back out of bed and lowers himself to the floor. Fifty press-ups, a hundred squats, a hundred sit-ups. It’s a start, at the very least, and he can get a few sets in before his roommate returns.

It’s surprisingly easy, Owen thinks distantly, to disengage from physical pain. His arms are crying out for him to stop, but the black dullness in his head is muffling their whimpering. He permits himself twenty breaths – no, better make it fifteen, for all the players on the pitch he screwed over today – and then begins another set.

He’s about to start the fourth round of exercises when he hears Ben’s key card opening the door. He scrambles up off the floor, sliding under the duvet just as Ben turns on the light in the entrance of their room. He’s breathing hard – _not hard enough, wuss_ – but he’s sure Ben won’t be able to see any difference from across the room.

The scrumhalf putters around for a few minutes, going into the bathroom and turning the lights on and off in there, and finally gets into bed himself. The room plunges back into silence and darkness. Owen relaxes. He’s fucked up, he knows, and on a literally international stage. He’s started his penance for it now. Tomorrow is a new day and a fresh start – robot mode fully engaged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Owen :(
> 
> Say hi on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I discussed this with a few people in the comments, but I thought I'd better mention it here too for those who don't read all the comments on fics (just me?). The themes which were introduced or brought more to the forefront in the last chapter - emotional shutdown, food issues, general self-hatred or frustration - continue in this update and in the next few, so please look after yourselves by not reading or asking for more specific warnings if that's what you need to do.  
> I hope you're all having a good day. (Also, this fic is now 100k - that's over twice as much as my previous 'long' fic!)

The debrief the next morning is excruciating, just as it should be. Owen makes sure to jump in with his self-criticisms before anyone else – he can control this, if nothing else, and he wants to show that he knows what he did wrong. He’s an expert at identifying his own mistakes and learning from them.

Stuart pulls him aside after the meeting, a concerned look on his face. “Do you have a minute, Owen?” he asks gently.

“Yes, sir,” he says, trembling despite his commitment to eliminating emotions. This is it – they’re not even waiting until the second Test. He’s being sent home, international career in tatters.

Fuck, Andy’s going to kill him. He probably knows already – waiting outside to rip into him, like last night but with no workplace laws to protect him. Oh, God, shit, fuck…

“It’s nothing bad,” Stuart assures him, taking a seat opposite him at one of the huge, empty tables. “I wanted to say – you were being very harsh on yourself in the meeting just now. It’s good to see you have the ability to see where you might have gone wrong, but I’m worried it’s tipping too far in the wrong direction.”

Owen bites the inside of his lip. Where’s Stuart going with this? He knows what his mistakes are – how can that be a bad thing?

“You’re still very young, Owen, and you’re doing incredibly well. Maybe we threw you in at the deep end with a start, and I’m willing to accept that as my mistake. You looked out of your depth at times – not through any fault of your own, mind – so you’ll be on the bench for the weekend, alright?”

Owen’s head is spinning. Okay, he’s not going home, but it’s the next worst thing. How’s he meant to prove what he can do with five or ten minutes of game time once Toby’s won or lost the match?

Stuart looks at him seriously. “I wanted to tell you now because you seemed very down in the debrief, and most of what you were pointing out as your errors was not fixing mistakes others had created, rather than of your own making. Maybe your kicking could do with a little work, but nothing drastic. We’re still all very impressed with you, Owen.”

He laughs. “You’re doing a hell of a lot better than most of us were doing at twenty, so don’t beat yourself up about it. These things happen, and we’re going to work together to improve.”

“Yes, sir,” he says, shaking Stuart’s outstretched hand firmly. There’s one coach who he’s definitely not performing better than, and unfortunately it’s the one whose opinion matters most – no offence, Stuart.

At least he knows what the coaches think his biggest weakness is – his kicking. It’s frustrating because it’s usually his strongest element, along with his decision-making. It’s the thing you can work on by yourself, and he did, for hours and hours across so many years. Still, if that’s what the coaches think, he’s going to do it. Maybe if he trains hard enough, he’ll get off the bench sooner during the match.

On the other hand, being on the bench is a million times better than playing in the midweek games, so he hasn’t fallen that far in the coaches’ opinions yet. It’s hard work that got him here in the first place, and it’s going to take a hell of a lot of hard work to keep him here.

*

The midweek boys win their match, which at least lifts the spirits of the squad. Owen wouldn’t know anything about that, though – he’s more pissed off that Charlie played so well. If not for the proper game being three days later, he could have pushed Owen right off the bench and taken his spot.

He’s doing as much as he can to fight for his place. Being up early and running extra laps of the training pitches doesn’t seem to provoke much reaction among the coaches (maybe because they’re still in bed themselves, but that’s their loss). He studies the tape obsessively, going over it before breakfast, volume turned way down low so he doesn’t disturb Ben.

Then he works his arse off in training, running around and screaming like a mad thing. Aside from some funny looks, the coaches don’t seem overly impressed by that either. He’s cutting out some unnecessary food from his meals and avoiding snacks, but that’s more for him than anyone else. They don’t know the difference being sluggish from too many carbs and being lighter, floatier because of his half-empty stomach makes to his game.

He might black out for a millisecond during a tackle, but a quick HIA determines that he’s not concussed and he’s fine to continue with the session. Everything’s fine, not that it matters. His thoughts, his feelings about all this don’t matter, as long as he gets to be on the bench this week and in the starting team for the final Test. That’s all that counts.

As it is, he’s forced to sit on the bench for the first hour of the game, stomach growling and hands clenched into tight fists. It doesn’t help anything that Toby’s playing out of his skin, 100% conversion rate and a try to boot. Ben scores twice, but none of it happens in the fifteen minutes he’s granted at inside centre.

Instead, Owen’s on the field for the final try that takes the Springbok lead from 31-27 to an unassailable 36-27. He’d be furious, if he wasn’t committed to robot mode. No time for emotions to affect him; if he tries hard enough, shouts with enough force to carry the team along with him, he can maybe get another penalty for Floody to kick. There’s no losing bonus point, but 36-30 would look so much better in all the match reports.

It doesn’t happen, of course. Sitting in the changing room after, listening to Stuart praising their improved attitude, he’s about two minutes away from bashing his head against the wall. Nothing’s working for him. Last week he was all cut up about _only_ scoring twelve points and not being able to create opportunities over the full eighty minutes. Now, he’d kill to be in that situation.

Stuart repeats his message about trying to relax in the evening, and Owen grinds his teeth together. Why the fuck should he relax? They’ve lost the series, and they’re on their way to being whitewashed if someone doesn’t do something, fast.

Since nobody else seems inclined to put any effort in, it’s apparently down to Owen to make the sacrifice.

Before he has a chance to talk to Ben about his plans, his roommate comes up to him with a mournful look on his face on the morning after the game. “You okay?” Owen asks. He might not be going in for feelings at the moment, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to be a dick to the rest of the squad. They’re still his team, at the end of the day.

Ben shakes his head, gestures at his shoulder. “Ligament, they reckon. No chance of it healing in time, maybe even before next season.”

“You’re going home, then?” Owen says. Shit, it really could be worse – at least he hasn’t been injured yet. “Mate, that’s awful.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “They’re sticking me on the first plane out tomorrow, before you lot all go to Port Elizabeth.”

“I’m so sorry,” Owen says at last. There’s not much else that can be said. “Hug?” Ben extends his left arm – the good one, clearly – and Owen hugs him round the waist, careful to avoid touching the right shoulder. “I’ll miss you,” he says honestly. “You’ve been a good roommate.”

Ben smiles half-heartedly, hugging back with his one good arm. “You too – though we do need to have a talk about your early morning running habits.” Owen stiffens slightly. He didn’t think Ben had picked up on it, but he’s more perceptive than he gave him credit for. “Anyway, they’re getting Karl Dickson from Quins in for me, so good luck with him.”

“Do you know what he’s like?” Owen asks. He’s just made friends with Ben; he doesn’t really have time to be figuring out this new guy in the ten days they’ll be rooming together.

Ben shrugs. “Chatty, like most nines. Honestly, mate, you’ll be fine. He played for Bedford for a bit too, so you can bond over that.”

Owen pulls a face. That’s a time in his life he would not like to revisit, if he’s honest. “Yeah, well. Maybe he’d like to come running with me.”

Ben snorts. “Sure. I’ve never seen anyone so determined to exercise as you. It’s freaky.”

“Whatever,” Owen says lamely. “See you at lunch?” Ben nods, and he gets himself out of the conversation as fast as he can. If Ben’s not sticking around, he might want to start poking his nose into the sudden addition of morning runs and extra bodyweight exercises into his routine, and he can’t have that. It might knock him off or disrupt his motivation, and he’s got barely enough left to get him through to the final game as it is.

The day of Ben’s departure also happens to be Fathers’ Day, joy of all joys, so Owen can hide under the pretence of helping him pack. He’s got a card stuffed in his suitcase that he bought at the airport, still unsigned. It’s one of those ones with a message in like _Best dad ever!_ or _Thanks for everything!_ He doesn’t want to have to come up with anything to say to Andy about his parenting, so he usually settles for leaving the printed message to stand alone.

 _To Dad_ and _Love Owen_ are more than he manages on every other day of the year, so it should be good enough for Andy today. He steels his nerve to write the card before lunch, then sneaks along to the coaches’ rooms and slides it under the door. He can’t give it to him in front of any of the lads, because it’ll go round like wildfire and they’ll be taking the piss for the rest of tour.

Besides, they’re both equally committed to pretending there’s no family connection (something Owen would love to extend outside England camp), so he’s not risking Andy’s wrath by damaging the façade.

At dinner, Andy gives him a significant look and nods, so Owen assumes that he’s got the card and that he’s safe for another year. He’s too busy trying to ‘accidentally’ spill some of his rice onto his lap so he doesn’t have to eat it, anyway.

Now Ben’s gone, it’s simpler than ever to cut things out and restrict. He hasn’t got any particularly close friends in the squad anymore, so he can switch tables every meal without much suspicion and leave a little more on his plate each time. It’s easy, clean, and effective. He’s pretty sure it’s helping his body, as well as his mind, and he’s not certain why he hadn’t started it before.

He feels ill just thinking about all the cakes he’d promised to make Jamie, and how he’s going to go back to eating bigger portions when he gets home. When he was still living with his parents, his robotic phases were greeted with enthusiasm by Andy and not much reaction from his mum, too busy sorting out the girls to be concerned what her eldest child was or was not eating.

Then it hits him. It’s obvious, really. Georgie wants him to move in with her, and Jamie’s probably bored of having a guy from the team hanging around and taking up space in his house. Georgie hasn’t got a clue how much he’s meant to be eating every day, while Jamie does. All he has to do to keep this regime up and maintain his edge is move in with his girlfriend. That way, everyone’s happy – he plays well, Georgie gets to show him off, and Jamie gets more free time to call his boyfriend.

He resolves to start looking for houses in the St Alban’s area as soon as he gets home. It’s the only way for him to do what he has to do, adding those critical 1% gains to his performance. Out of sight, out of mind – it’s going to be perfect.

He does play better in the final Test, as some kind of vindication. Floody’s off with a sprained ankle after twelve minutes, so Owen takes his place. This is his time to prove himself, to make up for the epic failures of the first fortnight.

There’s nothing much doing on both sides for long stretches of the match, the halftime score a paltry 9-8. It’s close enough for some hope to be hovering tentatively in the air in the England locker room while Stuart encourages them to greater heights.

Owen kicks a penalty four minutes later, taking to 9-11. He can see Steyn looking across at him as he takes the restart. They’re in each other’s heads now, for better or for worse.

Steyn goes for the drop goal and misses a few minutes later, and it sparks an idea in Owen’s mind. Soon enough, the forwards have manoeuvred themselves into a position for him to attempt his own drop goal, though he misses by a matter of inches. It’s okay, he tells them all, fighting back a string of curses. They’ve got time, and a two-point lead.

But then, Pietersen’s sliding through Owen’s outstretched arms and sliding over the try line. It’s all the worse because it was his defence that let them down, not just his yelling at the others to tackle harder. Steyn misses the conversion, so it’s 14-11 with twenty minutes left.

He tries again with the drop goal, misses. Maybe this is what the coaches really meant when they said his kicking was a weak point. He’d been practising his kicking from hand like a twat, when he should have been trying drop goals.

With nine minutes remaining, there’s another penalty, forty-five metres out from the South African posts. Hartley looks over at Owen, and he shrugs. _Might as well try it – we’re losing already_.

He takes the kick. It goes neatly between the uprights to level the scores at 14-14. It’s as he’s turning back to jog away that he sees him.

He doesn’t know how he hadn’t noticed before, but _Nigel Owens, the gay ref,_ is one of the touch judges. It knocks all his thoughts about 1% advantages clean out of his head, replacing them with Jamie’s voice musing about how he might be _even 1% not straight_.

Owen slaps himself, two hard whacks on the thigh. Fuck, he doesn’t have time for this, not now. He’s supposed to be taking charge and winning this for his country, not panicking because he saw a gay guy fifty metres away from him.

“Robot mode,” he hisses to himself, ready for the restart. “Get your fucking act together, Farrell.”

It’s no use. He’s so thrown by the appearance of Nigel Owens – memories flooding back to him about the day he came out, and when Gareth Thomas came out, and George running over the road shaking, and the wrestling, and Andy’s yelling – that he can’t shut down the emotions. It’s like he’s vibrating, brain too busy jumping from rugby to 2007 to 2009 and back again to focus in any meaningful way.

The final whistle is more a relief than anything else. This whole tour’s been a shambles on his end, and the last ten minutes have only proven it. He’s got a lot of work to do if he’s going to be asked back for the autumn internationals, mentally as well as physically.

The handshake lines form, and Owen’s hyperaware of where Nigel Owens is at all times. He’s off to the side, chatting to the other refs at first, and then the three of them are joining the end of the line. He’s shaking hands with Jantjies and Pietersen and bloody Steyn, then the first two refs, and then it’s Nigel Owens standing in front of him.

“Good game,” Nigel says, smiling slightly.

“Thanks, sir,” he says. His brain’s flailing, like the last few weeks of emotional lockdown are sending it into overdrive now. “And, uh – thanks, for everything.”

It’s not what he means to say, or to imply. He’s saying it for Jamie and Elliot, and for George, who’s the least likely of all of them to ever meet _Nigel Owens_. He might be saying it for himself, for the 1% that he’s not quite sure about, and he thinks Nigel gets that.

“You’re welcome,” he replies, smile growing. “You played well.”

Then they’re both moving on, keeping the interaction within the boundaries of a conventional handshake between two people who don’t know each other. It was a normal post-match exchange, save for the subtext invisible to most.

The flat disappointment of the match has been almost totally submerged by a strange buzzing feeling. There was a line – key word, _was_ – and he’s crossed it. Fuck, he’s spoken to Nigel Owens, and maybe even hinted something about his own sexuality. It’s a high bigger than almost anything he’s experienced before.

It’s not a _can’t stop smiling_ kind of feeling, thank God, because that would be hard to explain right now, but more a warming, fizzy _holy shit I did it_ sensation in his bones. He really, actually did that.

He drifts back into the changing room, sinks into his stall dizzily. _Wow._

Suddenly he’s far more receptive to Stuart’s congratulations, his reminders that the World Cup is the end goal and they’ve got a long way to go and that this is a good start. He might even take up the offer of relaxing. He might check his phone for the first time in two weeks, now the pressure’s off – at least for the time being.

Andy stays away too, the icing on the (firmly proverbial) cake. It’s a shame that Ben’s gone, really. Karl’s nice enough, but he’s not feeling up to a heart-to-heart conversation with a guy he’s known for less than a week. Jamie must have messaged him, and they’re only an hour behind. Perhaps he’ll be up for a chat.

He can gush about Nigel Owens to Jamie as well, without having to hide anything. That’s something he definitely isn’t willing to do with Karl.

Owen smiles his way through the post-match meal, even attempting a conversation with Steyn. It turns out he’s perfectly nice, and Owen feels a burst of satisfaction at provoking a laugh out of him with his story about George and the press-ups bet.

All in all, his rubbish day/week/tour has turned out pretty well. He’s happy enough to let the positive emotions slip through the net, although he knows full well from past experience that there’s going to be a swing back in the next few days when he lets himself go and all the negative feelings rush back to the front of his mind. It might be rough for a little while, but it will be worth it thanks to his (slightly) improved performance on the field.

The first hint of negativity makes itself known a few hours later, earlier than he’d been expecting.

(And perhaps that should have been the first sign.)

He’s curled up on his bed, going through the texts he’s missed over the last couple of weeks. They’re overwhelmingly positive, or at the very least consolatory. George had started off texting every day, though it had tailed off to a simple _good game_ once it was clear the replies weren’t coming.

Georgie’s sent her usual affectionate messages, and he makes sure to reply to those quickly. He can make most excuses about being tired from training or a bit run down and she’ll pretend to understand. It makes it easy, if not the most helpful relationship.

Then he gets to Jamie’s messages – skipping over Elliot’s, though he’s pretty sure they’ll be similar if not identical. Scrolling back up to the first unread texts, two weeks ago, he can see Jamie’s usual chattering coming through, transcribed word for word onto the screen. There’s a couple of photos, which he clicks to download.

 _Oh._ He’d forgotten about how the rest of their little friendship group were going clubbing without him, but now it hits him with full force, alone in his bland hotel room thousands of miles away. The lighting’s terrible in all the photos, thought that doesn’t diminish the broad grins on each of their faces.

The picture that probably makes him feel the most homesick and isolated is a selfie taken by George, with Elliot and Jamie wrapped up in each other in the background. They’re not kissing, not quite, but they’re so close they might as well be. It’s a close enough embrace that they’d never get away with it anywhere else in public, and it makes Owen’s heart ache. They both look so content, and George’s look of glee rounds it off as the perfect combination to make him realise just how much he misses them all.

In an effort to distract himself, he keeps reading through the texts. Jamie’s quite obviously drunk in the first few, and the ones from the following days make it clear that he and Elliot are staying with George and all the guys up in Leeds for a while longer.

Owen’s not ungrateful about his England selection, could never be, but he’s jealous of how happy they’ve been while he’s been self-flagellating to a frankly dangerous extent. Then he gets to Jamie’s texts on Fathers’ Day, and he starts to cry.

_I know today’s going to be tough for you so text or call if you need_

_I’m free all day, sending hugs_

_Not sure if you’re reading these, but we love you and miss you_

_^ from Elliot and George and Zak and K+D_

Then, a couple of hours later:

_Mate, I know you must be okay because you’re still out there, but please don’t bottle it all up_

_You haven’t replied in days, or even seen these messages_

_I’m getting worried and I know the other boys are too_

It just makes Owen feel worse and cry harder. Fuck, he’s been such a dick to his friends, cutting them off with no warning.

He scrolls through the texts faster now, not sure if he can take reading each one individually. He gets the gist – they’re concerned, thinking about contacting Charlie or one of the other Sarries lads but more worried about not invading his privacy. It’s a level of consideration he wouldn’t have thought them possible of, and he’s grateful for all it makes him feel like shit.

He must press a wrong button at some point, because his phone’s decided to jump back to the most recent messages from just a few hours before.

_Good kick_

_Nice one_

_George is loving these drop goal attempts, by the way_

_Something about press-ups, apparently, but I can’t remember_

A gap for a few minutes, and then:

_Tough one, but great job overall_

_Ooh Nigel Owens you lucky thing_

_Hope you said hi and told him how much we all love him_

Do they all love him? Owen’s never been privy to such a conversation, instead choosing to assume that the other three appreciated his bravery in the same way he did – quietly and privately. On the other hand, he isn’t nearly as open about his maybe-1% as much as they are about their 50-100%.

He’s tempted to reply, but there’s one last message.

_Same goes for you mate – see you in a few days, hope you’re doing okay <3_

Owen can’t keep ignoring the messages, struggling to type through the wet haze obscuring his vision.

 _I told him thanks, I think he knew what I was talking about,_ he sends eventually, not knowing how to address the bigger topics. Jamie’s going to ask why he ghosted them all for a fortnight, but he’s got to figure out what to tell him first.

Jamie pings back a text within seconds.

_He lives! Up for a call?_

_Sure,_ Owen sends before he can chicken out. His phone starts buzzing immediately, and he takes a deep breath. It’s all going to be okay, he reminds himself. Jamie knows how fucked up he is more than anyone.

He shifts on the bed, easing his stiffening limbs, and answers the call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you thought about this, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW again for food and mental health issues.

Jamie wasn’t angry, which was the biggest relief for Owen. He was so kindly understanding that it reduced him to tears all over again. They skirted around the clubbing trip and England’s losses and the fact that Owen could definitely hear Elliot and George talking in the background, instead opting for easier topics like the day off in Johannesburg and the safari – Jamie was still fixated on the rhinos, for some reason.

Karl had come back before Owen was expecting him to, so he’d ducked into the bathroom to finish the call in relative privacy. Jamie had promised to come and pick him up from the airport, probably with Elliot in tow although he couldn’t be sure.

It’s a nice reminder that he has friends and a support network, even if they’re not with him in person. The only issue is the way it makes him feel like it’s a glimpse into an alternate reality. He could be like Elliot, having a long-distance relationship with another player, only out to a few people on his team and constantly dodging questions about a boyfriend.

Maybe he’d be happier in that reality, able to indulge the deviant 1% of his sexuality. However, it doesn’t look like he’d ever be able to do that, not with Andy lurking in the back of his mind at all times, ready to police his behaviour.

They’re on the flight back from Port Elizabeth to Heathrow, Toby snoring gently in the seat next to Owen. He’s thinking about his next steps, trying to plan out how the next months and years will go in an ideal world.

Even now he’s switched back out of robot mode, he can still acknowledge that moving in with Georgie is going to happen sooner rather than later, to the probable appreciation of all parties. He’d texted her about it just before take-off, and she’d responded instantly with a dozen hearts and smiley faces. Given that they’re both free for the next couple of months, it makes sense to start looking at houses as soon as possible.

Moving out of Jamie’s house will make the rest of the plan – the rugby side – flow more easily, at least in Owen’s head. The _eat less, train more_ regime has had some results in the last two weeks, so he’ll have plenty of time to make more progress over the summer before preseason. With that in mind, his continued involvement in England should come smoothly enough. He wants to be one of the first names on the team sheet, not constantly hanging around the fringes hoping for a spot on the bench.

The mental side of things – his 1%, as he’s taken to calling it, and all the issues that make him periodically collapse on Jamie – can be swept under the rug for now. He’s got bigger fish to fry, and though having everything sorted out would be nice, it’s unrealistic. His career has to come first, so he can possibly think about talking to the Sarries welfare advisor a few years down the line.

His list of priorities is rugby and then everything else, as it always has been. If he had to go into more detail on the ‘everything else’, though, he’d be tempted to place mental health down towards the bottom of the ranking.

It’s selfish, really, to be focused on yourself to the exclusion of all else, and at least his physical improvement will benefit the team. It’s neither here nor there to his teammates if he’s crying himself to sleep every night as long as he’s still scoring points.

Owen sits and watches the little plane move across the map on the TV for a while, then gives up and decides to follow Karl’s example. Sleep is productive, and he can’t exactly start looking up potential houses in the greater St Albans area without Georgie to refer to.

He doesn’t manage it in the first twenty minutes of trying, although he must fall asleep somewhere over Africa because he wakes up to the seatbelt announcement for landing. He cricks his neck, tightens his seatbelt, and waits to hit English soil again for the first time in a month.

It’s been a while, and he’s excited for the prospect of talking to someone who isn’t a) a rugby player or b) a rugby coach. Having a restricted social circle of approximately fifty is exhausting sometimes.

They pick up their bags and go through customs pretty quickly, a couple of cameras flashing the only real greeting. Then it’s out into the main arrivals area, and Owen can hear an expectant hum beyond the doors, something that sounds like children squealing.

He lets a few of the older guys go first to be reunited with their families, then heads out first. He’s looking for Jamie and maybe Elliot, but nobody else.

It’s not them his eyes catch on when he’s scanning the crowd though – it’s his mum and the girls and little Gabriel cradled into Elleshia’s arms. They must be here for Andy, he decides, but he can’t stop himself stopping the other side of the fence for them.

“Owen, darling!” his mum cries, gathering him into a hug. “Oh, sweetheart, you did so well.” She pulls back to study him. “Were they giving you enough to eat? You look thin.”

“Mum,” he complains, shaking her hands away from his face. “I’m fine. Lots of training, that’s all.”

She tuts, but then her face changes and he knows Andy’s appeared behind him.

“He plays better when he’s lighter anyway,” Andy says gruffly, leaning in to kiss Colleen.

Owen catches his sisters’ eyes and pretends to throw up – they’re just as repulsed as he is. He shuffles round Andy’s trolley of bags to say hi to them properly, and to let Gabe catch onto his finger. His tiny hands have grown a bit since he last saw his baby brother, but he’s still just as cute.

“Are you coming home with us, love?” his mum asks, once she’s finished talking to Andy.

“Jamie’s meant to be picking me up,” he says apologetically, looking around the crowd to see if his friend’s hanging around close by. He’s not, but Owen trusts him to be somewhere in the vicinity.

“Right,” his mum says, a little disappointed. “That’s okay, as long as you have a way to get home. Will you be coming round for tea soon?”

“Maybe,” he says. Committing to things is always risky. “Georgie and I are looking at some houses I the next few weeks, so I’ll be a bit busy.”

His mum’s face shifts from disappointed to thrilled in the blink of an eye. “Oh, that’s fantastic! I didn’t know you were that serious about her.”

He nods awkwardly, and Andy coughs from behind him. “About time,” he says. “You shouldn’t keep stringing her along.”

Owen wants to retort that Andy’s not the best guide to follow in terms of healthy relationships or even timelines in relationships, but he holds his tongue. He’s so close to getting away from him after so many days dodging him in camp, and he can’t mess up now.

“Hey, it’s Jamie!” Gracie half-yells, startling Gabe into the gasping mewls that indicate a full-blown tantrum incoming in a matter of seconds. Andy scoops the baby up into his arms and hurries away, like he’s trying to defuse a bomb in a more secure location, Owen thinks with amusement. He deserves some more time with the more complicated son, anyway – his mum’s probably been run off her feet with a baby and two teenagers to look after.

“Ayup, Faz,” Jamie says, suddenly right in front of him, and Owen can’t stop himself from grabbing his best friend in a hug. Shit, he’d been so lonely since Ben left, and he hadn’t even realised it. He presses his face into Jamie’s broad shoulder, feeling the rumbles of his voice as he greets Colleen and the girls.

“You alright, mate?” Jamie whispers into his ear. Owen nods but doesn’t let go, so Jamie lets him cling on for a few seconds more. The arrivals area is rapidly emptying and he’s already known as the baby of the team, so he doesn’t have much of a reputation to lose.

Eventually, Jamie gives him a tap on the hip and he pulls back reluctantly. When he looks round, he can see why his friend gave him a warning – Andy’s approaching, Gabriel sleeping peacefully in his arms once more. If he hadn’t untangled himself in time, Andy would have been saving it as ammunition for weeks, until he least expected it.

“Hey, Jamie,” Andy says. “You taking our Owen home?”

“Yep,” Jamie says, refusing to engage with the subtext. “The house has been all empty without him cluttering it up with all his junk.”

Andy laughs, clapping Jamie on the shoulder. Owen frowns. He knows Jamie doesn’t mean it, but Owen-bashing is a shitty way of getting on with his dad.

“We’d best be off,” his mum says after an awkward moment. “Parking runs out in a few minutes.”

Owen hugs them all again – not Andy, that would be weird – and leaves with promises to visit soon. Jamie’s already walked off with his luggage trolley when he looks round, and he jogs to catch up.

They’re silent until Jamie’s pulling out onto the motorway, radio playing softly in the background. He doesn’t want Jamie to start an interrogation; he’s already tired enough without the drain that conversation would be on his energy.

“Got any plans for the rest of the break?” Jamie asks eventually, eyes fixed on the road.

Owen yawns before answering. “House hunting with Georgie. She’s dead excited.”

Jamie looks at him sharply. “You didn’t mention that the other day.”

He shrugs, knowing he’s misstepped and not sure how to correct it. “Yeah. Thought it was time to get a bit more serious, and she’s about to graduate. There won’t be a better time.”

“Right,” Jamie says. “Are you looking in the St Albans area, or what?”

“I guess so,” he yawns again. “Definitely not Harpenden, but somewhere close by the club. This job she’s got is mostly working from home anyway.”

“Okay,” Jamie says, and the radio fills the space between them. Owen’s too fuzzy to figure out how to apologise for not telling Jamie earlier, so he takes the easiest route out and falls asleep again.

*

Jamie’s not _off_ with him after that, exactly, but there’s a certain distance that hadn’t existed before. He might be spending more time in his room calling Elliot or whatever else he does in his spare time – Owen wouldn’t know, because he’s on his laptop and his phone for about eight hours a day trying to sort out which houses he and Georgie both want to view in the next couple of weeks.

It’s complicated enough attempting to negotiate this over the phone, so he eventually caves and drives over to Georgie’s student house to work on it in person. Jamie grunts when he tells him through the door that he’s going out, and that’s that.

He receives a far more enthusiastic welcome when he arrives at Georgie’s. It’s the first time they’ve seen each other in just over a month – since the middle of her exams, he realises guiltily. She doesn’t seem much bothered by that, flying out of the front door and jumping onto him before he’s even locked the car.

“Baby, I missed you so much,” she says fiercely into his ear. “You were so good, though; your team just let you down. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I missed you too,” he says, kissing her cheek and choosing to ignore the rest of her greeting. She blatantly doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but it’s nice to have someone so decidedly on his side.

She hangs onto him like a koala as he staggers up to the door, only dropping back to the floor so they can get through into the hall. “Want to go upstairs?” she says breathlessly. “Lily’s in the living room and I don’t want to disturb her, that’s all.”

Owen agrees, not caring either way. So long as they actually get a list of houses by the end of this and some confirmed viewings, he’s happy.

For the first hour or so, they steadily work through the various sites advertising houses for sale in St Alban’s and the surrounding area. They’ve already agreed that Owen and his comparatively large salary are going to take the brunt of the mortgage, and he gets more say in the houses as a result.

He wants a big garden for kicking, he knows that much, and three or so bedrooms. The master bedroom needs an ensuite for when he’s feeling lazy, and that’s pretty much it for him. Georgie adds the requirement of a decent kitchen and he quickly agrees, remembering the month’s worth of dinners he’d had to make Jamie at the start of the year.

Georgie suggests a few more things, like off-road parking and boiler type, that Owen would have never thought of himself, but it’s when she brings about school catchment areas that he has to cut her off. He’s twenty years old, and he’s promised himself he’s not becoming Andy in any way, kids or otherwise.

She looks a bit put out – had she seriously been considering it? Owen thinks incredulously – but agrees to start browsing sites. Luckily, there are quite a few they like offering viewings for the next week, so Owen books them and forwards the confirmation emails to his girlfriend. It’s worryingly simple so far, after all the horror stories Jamie’d told him from when he was buying his own house.

They manage another half an hour of serious, methodical searching before Georgie shuffles up the bed next to him. “I know this is important,” she says, looking up at him through her eyelashes, “and that was kind of why I asked you over, but also… It’s been so long – haven’t you missed me at all?”

He’s about to answer that yes, of course he’s been miserable without her, like any good boyfriend would be, and then he realises what she’s actually going for. “Of course I have,” he says, leaning in to kiss her. She’s already lifting up the hem of his T-shirt, clearly not hanging around.

“Oh, Owen, that camp really did a lot for you,” she breathes, dragging her fingers across his newly defined abs. He wants to explain how it’s actually water weight he’s lost and it’s only temporary while he’s not really eating enough, but that would spoil the moment. He settles for flexing a little, eliciting a pleased moan from his girlfriend, and then they’re off to the races.

Owen ends up staying the night, enjoying Georgie’s company and the ability to eat a half-portion of pasta without anyone remarking on it. It’s still nearly twice what Georgie’s eating, so she’s never going to pick up on it.

He leaves at two the next afternoon, driving back to St Albans feeling lighter than he has in a long while. It’s all erased, however, when he pulls into the drive to see Jamie sat on the front step.

“What’re you doing?” he asks, concerned.

“What am I doing?” Jamie asks, standing up and walking towards him. “Oh, I don’t know, worried about where my housemate might be after he tells me he’s going out for a few hours and then _doesn’t come back until the next afternoon_?”

Owen would have winced on any other day, but he’s so pumped up after all the attention Georgie gave him that he chooses to ignore Jamie’s concern. “Mate, you’re not my mum. I can go and do stuff by myself sometimes if I want to.”

“Well,” Jamie asks, crossing his arms, “where were you? And I swear to God, this had better be good for all the stressing I’ve been doing.”

Owen wants to backtrack, to deescalate the fight they’re heading towards, but he’s in too deep now for his pride to let him. “I was at Georgie’s, alright? Nothing wrong with that, is there – unless you’re just jealous because you only see Elliot six times a year.”

Jamie’s eyes flash. “Don’t you bring Elliot into this, you twat. Look, while you were merrily fucking your girlfriend for twenty-four hours straight, I was freaking out because I thought you might have had an accident, or done – _something_ to yourself!”

Owen takes a step back, anger draining from him in an instant. “Shit, mate – I wouldn’t, I promise, never. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“Yeah, well, answer your bloody texts next time,” Jamie says, exhausted, shoulders sagging. “At least when you were in South Africa and not replying, I knew nothing could have happened to you.”

“I’m not, like, depressed or anything, Jinx,” he protests. “I’m fine, honestly. I was just trying to focus on rugby for a few weeks after the first match was such a shitshow.”

Jamie shrugs, turns to head back inside. “If you say so, mate. Just tell me first, maybe, next time?”

Left alone outside, Owen folds his arms on top of his car and rests his head on them. He’s really fucking everything up at the moment – first rugby, now his relationship with Jamie.

He gets out his phone. Georgie had put it on silent during their third – well, that, and he hadn’t bothered to check it since. He’s had seventy unread messages and twenty missed calls, from Jamie, Elliot, George, and even a few of the Saracens lads. _Shit._

No wonder Jamie had been panicking, if he’d got that many people involved. He must really have a good reason to think Owen would have not come home, more than a few hours of radio silence. Making sure Owen texted every time he arrived or left somewhere – was that part of it too, or just his natural mother hen tendencies?

He shakes his head, clearing all the notifications. _I’m fine_ , he sends to Elliot and George as an afterthought. _Sorry for all the fuss_. Trying to apologise to Jamie now is going to be ten times harder than before, especially now he’s actually hurt his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr!](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com)


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued CW for food and mental health issues.

Jamie doesn’t want to hear it, which Owen supposes is kind of fair. Even with how much they’re dancing around each other in the days since it happened, it feels like it’s almost a relief for Jamie to have his concerns out there. He’s started mentioning his sessions with the Saracens welfare guy a lot more, who he apparently goes to talk to every week, even in the offseason.

He’s never told Owen that in such detail; before, he was always going shopping or to meet up with a mate from school, not going to talk about his feelings for an hour.

Owen can take a hint, though. The more he mentions how his and Georgie’s house hunting is going, the more Jamie brings up his counsellor. It’s obvious that Jamie is still worried about him, especially once he’s out there without anyone who can keep tabs on him as conscientiously as Jamie does.

He’s already factored it – mental health, that sort of thing – into his long-term plan, and this is definitely too soon. He wants to help Jamie stop worrying about him, but in the grand scheme of things it’s too early in his career to examine his mental health. Rumours could get out that he’s a headcase, in that way they always do, or – the more dangerous of the two, in Owen’s opinion – he could actually discover some mental issues that he has which derail his ability to play rugby.

For the moment, he’s better off living in blissful ignorance, and he tells Jamie that in as kind a way as he can manage. His friend’s clearly not convinced, but that’s his problem. Owen’s going to be living with Georgie soon, so Jamie won’t know if he’s going to see a counsellor or not, anyway.

The weeks tick by, with yet more pointed comments from Jamie which Owen chooses to ignore. He and Georgie have found the house they think is the one for them, a few minutes from Jamie’s house on the outskirts of St Albans. It’s got a big garden and space to put some rugby posts in, and a massive drive as per Georgie’s requirements.

The bank transactions go slightly over his head, but Georgie’s apparently done a module on mortgage stuff (he really hasn’t got a clue) so he’s happy to leave it to her and provide most of the money at the end of the discussions.

They rush into the purchase slightly, both their schedules threatening to conflict with moving in. Owen’s got to be sorted by the start of August otherwise worrying about his housing situation is going to start distracting him from his rugby, and Georgie wants to be settled by September when she begins her new job.

Owen doesn’t quite make it in time for a relaxed start to preseason, but all of his stuff is moved out of Jamie’s house and into his own house by mid-August. Unpacking will have to wait – probably until next summer, if he’s going to be anywhere near as busy this year as last season.

For him, it’s more of a relief to just have somewhere to call his own. Living with Kruiser and then with Jamie was good to get him out of the Harpenden house, as he’s taken to calling it in his head – _home_ doesn’t really sit right, anymore. The lads have been nice, but there’s something about living with your teammate’s parents and then with an increasingly concerned friend that makes Owen feel slightly like he’s being babysat.

Now, at last, he’s free to do what he wants in his own home.

The move doesn’t seem to have quite the same significance attached for Georgie; she’s pleased to have her own house, for definite, but there isn’t the undercurrent of escape that Owen feels that first night when he gets to lock the doors and go to sleep next to his girlfriend. No justifications, no nothing. Jamie’s a great friend, but recently he’s been so overbearing as to frustrate him.

Owen’s perfectly capable of regulating his own diet and exercise regime, even if Jamie had kept making disappointed noises when he found half his food in the bin after tea. He knows what he’s doing, and at least now Georgie isn’t forcing him to waste food every mealtime.

It’s funny, though, how he’s spending five days out of seven with the team, long training sessions and matchdays in the run up to the season, and still feeling like something’s missing. His girlfriend’s kind and attentive as ever – she arranges date night each week, until he’s too exhausted to even think about leaving the house and has to tell her so. He tries to make up for the displeasure etched across her face and in the hunch of her shoulders, but he can’t.

He and Jamie still talk while they’re at the club, and Kruiser and Mako. He steers clear of Billy, but that’s different. It’s more that now it feels like they’re talking to him out of obligation – like he’s included in conversations only because of his place on the team and the importance of team bonding. If he wasn’t in such a central role – if he was a lock, for instance – would they still be talking to him?

The season begins, two victories and a draw at home to Leicester, then a loss to Exeter. It’s a semi-decent start to the year, Owen makes sure to tell himself when the doubts start creeping in. A rugby team is more than one player, so it’s not all on him.

(A 20% success rate off the tee against Leicester absolutely was his fault, on the other hand.)

The Exeter loss comes the day before his birthday, and he spends the day feeling like the shackles have been tightened around his chest. It’s not helped by a surprise visit by his parents, or having to force down some cake under his mum’s beady eye.

It upsets all of them, having to witness him swallowing his birthday cake under duress – at least before this, he’s mostly been able to reduce the portion size before he gets to the point of having to eat it. Georgie usually loves having him cook – he can imagine what Jamie would have to say about it, but it’s only imagining because they haven’t really talked socially for a while – but now he can see she might be twigging for the first time.

If she does figure something out, she doesn’t mention it, and Owen breathes a sigh of relief that not everyone’s as pushy as Jamie. Instead, she curls into his side, rubbing at his chest, as they watch the Warrington-Hull FC match from the day before.

League soothes him, wearing away at the chafing ridges union has worn away in his mind. He’s trying hard, cutting down on certain food groups, reducing overall intake and increasing his output, and unintentionally decreasing his social interactions too.

Still, it’s not working.

(Not as well as he’d like, at least.)

Warrington come away victorious, and Owen slumps down on the sofa. What he’d give to be in that situation, honestly.

Georgie pets at his hair. “Do you want to talk, baby? You’ve seemed kind of – down, lately.”

He kisses her, a knot in his half-empty stomach. “No, I’m okay. Just tired, with the start of the season and everything. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

Apparently that’s enough to convince her, because she doesn’t bring it up again.

*

He manages to get his act together long enough to score all Sarries’ points against Quins and win 16-18, and – despite not playing the next week – it’s enough to convince Stuart and the other England coaches as well.

Saracens win once more – Leeds win twice, to take the title, and Owen has to turn the TV off before George’s POTM interview – and then he’s off to Pennyhill for the autumn internationals.

“Ayup, Faz!” Ben says brightly, bouncing into their room on the first evening in camp. “How’s it going?”

“Alright, yeah,” he says. Ben’s natural exuberance is going to be too much for him over the month, he knew as soon as he saw who he was rooming with. Squeezing in extra naps in the evening is going to be harder with him around than with Georgie, that’s for sure.

Ben pokes him with his toe from where he’s perched on the other bed. “Okay, be like that. I saw your boy won the Super League – isn’t that exciting?”

Biting back a retort that George isn’t _his_ boy, and that they haven’t properly spoken in months, he cracks an eye open. “You watched it?”

Ben snorts. “Not the whole thing; my girlfriend doesn’t like it. I saw the highlights, though. Zak and Danny were insane!”

Owen mumbles his agreement. George’s housemates were pretty impressive, and Kit had been yelling from the side lines with as much energy as the boys on the pitch. It’s nice to see someone having some success – he’s heard whispers already that Floody’s going to be starting the match, so he’s already back in the number two berth.

“How are you doing, mate?” Ben asks again, fixing him with a stare from across the room. “Like, seriously, how are you doing?”

Owen tenses. He’s so tired already, but there’s no way he’s buckling under the pressure. “I’m fine, honestly.”

“Right,” Ben says. “I don’t want to back you into a corner or anything, but – some of your lads have been asking me if I can talk to you. They think it’s something they’ve done, that you’re not talking to them or replying to their messages.”

When Owen sneaks a look over at him, his friend at least has the decency to look apologetic. “Who?” It’s easier this way, deflecting instead of engaging; one of the tricks he learned from Andy which might actually prove useful.

“Fordy, Jinx, Brad, George Kruis – even little Elliot at Wasps, and I don’t know how he got my number,” Ben lists off. “There’s a lot of people thinking about you, mate, is what I’m trying to get at. If you want to talk, I’m here.”

“Well, keep thinking about me,” Owen grunts, good patience exhausted. “I’ll be focusing on rugby, like the rest of you should be.”

“Okay,” Ben sighs, “if that’s how you want to play it. Just – no man is an island, you know? We’re trying to build a bridge, or send out a supply boat, or something like that. If you’re not going to talk to me, then there’s at least ten other people who’d love you to respond to their messages, and England’s definitely got a sports psychologist lurking around here somewhere.”

Owen rolls over to face the wall. He’s fine. He knows what he’s doing. He’s in complete control, and they just – don’t get it.

He’s fine. it’s fine. Everything’s fine.

*

The Fiji match can’t be taken to be representative of his skillset – he hopes, at least. Owen gets twenty minutes off the bench, brought on with everyone else when the match has been taken to an unassailable forty-point lead. Toby kicks seventeen points, but Owen makes the best of what he’s got and has a 100% success rate for two points. The coaches literally couldn’t have asked him for more.

It helps, probably, that Ben comes on at the same time as him. However wearing he might find his little friend’s yapping during the week, his experience and level head are undoubtably an asset on match days. The way they’re playing together, it’s looking unlikely that he’s going to be rooming with anyone else in the near future.

In spite of Ben being the latest to pick up Jamie’s mother hen tendencies, it’s actually a bit of an advantage. He’s used to robot mode by now, letting Owen go to bed early and wake up early for a run without much complaint. From his side, Owen’s worked out how to open the Pennyhill doors without making the handles squeak, which must be helping.

It’s another week of hard work and gritting his teeth to get through training sessions and mealtimes alike, ultimately to no avail. Australia win 14-20, and Owen gets seven minutes of game time and no points.

Another week, wasted.

*

South Africa are up next, and Owen’s so thrown by the news that Nigel Owens – _Nigel Owens_ – is going to be reffing the match that his selection on the bench and Ben’s promotion to the starting fifteen barely registers.

Before, he would have talked to Jamie about it, or Elliot or George, seen as he’s 1% in the same boat as them. Now, though, he’s backed himself into a corner that he’s not sure he can – or wants to – get out of.

So he sits on the bench for forty-five minutes, tracking the flow of the game and the ball, always conscious of the referee in his red shirt. The uniform must be extra bright against the muted purple of England and South Africa’s dark green, he decides – there’s no other reason for his distraction.

Then the call comes to the bench, just after the ridiculous Alberts try (Owen’s going to see that in his nightmares for weeks), that he’s going on. Thirty-five minutes is more than he could have hoped for, although entering the field of play ten points down isn’t ideal.

He settles into his usual patterns, shouting and pointing and driving his shoulder into the opposition like they’re tiny bugs. One of his junior coaches used to suggest imagining that they were hitting someone they hated, but Owen’s never found bringing Andy unnecessarily into his mind very helpful.

Manu makes a break, a few minutes later, darting through the defensive line and offloading to Ashy, who gives the ball to Mike Brown. He’s hauled down too soon, Owen screaming at the ref for a penalty, and once it’s given he’s immediately ice-calm again, ready for the kick.

9-16, twenty minutes left. He’s got to get this done.

Another penalty. Up to 12-16. A converted try – just a try – anything.

Three minutes left, and Chris points to the posts. Owen wants to shout at him to kick for the corner instead, go big or go home. But he can’t contradict his captain, not in front of 82,000 people and Nigel Owens.

He keeps his mouth shut and kicks the penalty. Two minutes, one point in it.

By then, it’s too late. Whatever Chris was hoping for – a drop goal or something like that, never Owen’s speciality- doesn’t materialise. South Africa take it, leaving England outside the top four in the world rankings.

To cut a long story short – they’re royally fucked for the World Cup now. They’re going to be in a pool with two other of the top tier teams instead of one, leaving them in danger of not making it out of the pool stages in their home world cup altogether. He can see it in the eyes of his teammates as they line up to shake hands. The long road just got even longer.

Nigel’s handshake doesn’t elicit the same nervous butterflies in his stomach as it had before, although the ref makes sure to pull him to one side as they all walk off down the tunnel.

“I don’t want to assume,” he says quietly, looking around at the passing players and officials, “but if you ever want to talk to anyone, I’m here. Or I can put you in touch with Alfie, if you like.”

Owen smiles at him uncomfortably, and Nigel shrugs. “It’s up to you. I’m not going to say anything, or treat you differently on the pitch. Separating work and life is important to me.”

Owen’s stomach growls in the awkward silence, and Nigel chuckles. “I suppose I’d better let you get on with things. Good luck – I’ll probably see you during the Six Nations.”

They shake hands once more, and Owen retreats to the relative safety of the locker room. Nobody in there’s going to ask him about being gay, thank God, all focused on the right kind of 1%. Marginal gains will need to be worked on in the next week, if they’re to have any chance of beating New Zealand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Leeds winning the 2012 Super League.](https://storage.googleapis.com/rhinos/uploads/2018/12/2012-2.jpg)
> 
> I'd love to hear what you thought about this, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for food and exercise issues, and general poor mental health.

_Twenty matches_ is the refrain that rings around his mind for the next six days. The All Blacks are coming to Twickenham on the back of a twenty match winning streak, having thrashed Scotland and Wales already in November.

It’s December now though, and Stuart’s determined to make the changes count. No longer is positive progress and momentum enough – it’s time to turn up the heat. After this game, it’s only three years to the World Cup.

If they scrape out a win, then the pool of death won’t look so ominous, form their side or in the media.

The principal change is this: Owen is starting at ten, Floody nowhere to be seen. He’s surrounded by the usual crowd (Ben, Brad, Mike, Ashy, and Alex Goode), backed up by newcomer Freddie Burns. It’s a vote of confidence if ever he’s seen one, and he’s dead set on proving to Stuart that he’s made the right choice.

The coaches informed them of selection in the squad meeting on Wednesday evening, so he has two days of training to really put his stamp on the weekend’s play. Given Owen’s dismal record with drop goal attempts so far in the autumn, he’s making sure to practise them on his own once the rest of the team traipse in for their showers.

Andy’s the only one willing to stay out with him and feed him the ball. It’s probably the best father-son bonding they’ve had in years.

(Owen still isn’t willing to acknowledge that relationship, though, and he doesn’t think he will ever be.)

When it’s dark enough for them both to be satisfied with calling it a day, Owen turns to see Ben loitering at the side of the pitch. He's occasionally kicking the ball around, lazy chips that he jogs after, and a few thwacking box kicks when Owen stares for too long.

If it wasn’t blatantly obvious that he was keeping tabs on him before, the way he immediately swivels to face the opposite direction when he sees Owen staring is proof enough. He appreciates that someone else is around so it’s not just him and Andy on the pitches by themselves, but it’s odd.

Jamie and his other friends still cares about him, he knows, even with the distance that has grown between them recently, but he’s showing it in a more hands-off, hovering manner than before. Ben, as his roommate, can still poke him out of bed in the evenings to go and talk to the lads, but he’s retreated a little too.

Owen doesn’t know what he's waiting for – unless he's finally noticed his robot mode and he's stepping back a little to give it the time and space it needs to work. That would be the logical response, the one which would help the team most.

And isn’t that what he’s trying to do, at the end of the day? Help the team, as much as he can, in whatever way he can?

Andy chucks the last few balls at him from where they’ve been scattered on the grass beyond the posts, and Owen stuffs them into the bag. He knows what he’s doing, even when he’s engaging with his dad. He’s doing it for the team, and they should be grateful, not worked up about it.

Still – he nods at him on the way past to the changing rooms, keeping up appearances in front of the coach. Ben asks if he’ll see him in the common area for games night, and it’s dirty pool because Andy’s right on his heels. He can’t say no in front of Andy without letting himself in for a lecture.

“Awesome, mate,” Ben says when he agrees reluctantly. “See you there in fifteen?”

“Make it half an hour,” Owen answers. He’s got to establish a boundary somewhere, at least. “Calf’s a bit tight, so I need to stretch.”

Andy loops an arm round his shoulders, guides him into the locker room. “You’ll be okay for the weekend, son? Extra training is all well and good, but you can’t get injured.”

He shakes his head, which has the helpful consequence of dislodging Andy’s grip on him. “It’s fine, really. Just a precaution.”

If his rubbish excuse to get out of spending time with the (noisy, nosy, overexcited) lads is going to get him taken off the team for the weekend, it’s clearly not worth it. Ben's out of earshot now, anyway.

“Alright, then,” Andy concedes. “Good work out there, by the way. It’s coming along nicely.”

Owen thanks him, then goes for his shower. Sluicing off all the mud and grime of training – be it mental or physical – is always one of the more satisfying parts of his day.

As he lathers up his hair with shampoo, he considers Andy’s comment. It hadn’t induced such a skin-crawling reaction as usual. Was that because it was made in his capacity as a coach, not as a father, and thus it was easier for him to accept feedback on his professional performance? He can’t be letting Andy closer to him; he’s not that naïve.

Shower over, he gets dressed in the empty locker room and walks up to his room. From the lack of light coming under the door, Ben must already be down with the others doing whatever the social secs deemed the evening’s entertainment.

Not to spoil their fun, but he can’t much see the point of it. Team bonding, yes, but they do that during training and meals enough. He’d rather just sleep.

Speaking of which – he glances at his phone. He still has ten minutes left in his arbitrary half an hour of free time, so he decides to lie down on his bed for a few minutes. It won’t be long, and he’ll gain a few more percent in his battery with which to face social activity.

He falls asleep.

The buzzing of his phone next to his head wakes him up, shortly followed by the ping of a key card in the door and the crack of it swinging open.

“Faz?” Ben calls, apparently hesitant to turn the lights on. He’s glad; it would give him a headache as well as the bubbling irritation growing in his stomach. Honestly, when did this team turn into a nanny state?

“Oh, there you are, mate,” Ben says, rounding the corner. “We didn’t know where you were. Sleeping again?”

For whatever reason, it rankles. He’s a grown man, not some errant child they all have to keep tabs on.

(It also reminds him uncomfortably of Jamie’s reaction, that night he’d spent over at Georgie’s without telling him. He doesn’t need monitoring at all times to make sure he isn’t doing something stupid.)

“Yeah, I was,” he says, sitting up and shaking the sleep from his limbs. “Extra training makes you tired, you know – except, well, you wouldn’t, because you never do any.”

Ben flinches. “Look, Faz, it’s called _extra_ for a reason, because it’s not expected – anyway. We just wanted to see if you were around for some cards, but apparently not. I’ll get out of your hair.”

Owen’s left with a bitter taste in his mouth, however much he tries to slip back into his unfeeling robot mode.

Ben pauses, hand on the door. Still facing away, he says, “I’m sure this isn’t the real you, mate. When the last match is done – we’re all ready to talk, if you’ll stop ignoring us.”

He lies back down on the bed, staring resolutely at the wall. It’s nice of them to make the gesture, he supposes, but, as the door clicks shut after Ben, he’s sure that that’s all it is – an empty gesture.

*

Match day dawns in a sea of cloud. Jogging round the training pitches, Owen highly doubts that anyone else at Pennyhill has experienced as many of the dawns as he has recently, and he’s secretly quite smug about the fact. It’s something to do with his show of dedication, and the actual dedication and drive it takes to get out of bed early and stack up some laps.

Running done, he walks back inside, slugging from his water bottle. Breakfast is in half an hour, so he’s got time for a shower in the locker room – can’t disturb Ben – before going to join the rest of the team. Any other year, the nerves would be gathering already, but robot mode insulates him now. He’s cool, calm, collected – the opposite of emotional.

He goes through the rest of his routine, joining Ben and a few others for breakfast and then going up to the room to finish packing his kit bag. He’d started last night, but ultimately decided to sleep instead of fiddling with the positioning of his tape relative to his spare mouthguard.

While he’s there, he replies to Georgie’s morning text, and then turns his phone off. It’s time to focus, and that’s just one more distraction he doesn’t need.

The bus journey – arriving at the stadium, though the walls of shouting (maybe cheering? he can’t tell) fans – into the locker room, and out onto the pitch to warm up. The All Blacks are running drills in their own half, and he can see Dan Carter taking practice kicks. Resolute, he turns his back on them. He’s been watching them enough in his private video review sessions, and he’s about to have an hour and a half tracking their every move.

He sets up a few kicks from the tee, carefully running through his routine. He’s done it so often recently that it’s past second nature, almost replacing his first nature – whatever that might be, he’s not a philosopher. He tries a couple of drop goals, and they soar through the posts. A little breeze gusts through the stadium, but it’s okay. He’s practised in all conditions; all levels of lighting. He’ll be fine.

Something clicks in his head like a timer going off, and he joins the rest of the team running off the pitch for Stuart’s final words. They’re short, simple, and to the point. _You know what you have to do. Go and do it._

The England boys line up to face the haka. Owen slots himself in between Ashy and Brad, grabbing hold of their jackets. The All Blacks are far enough away that he can let their challenge wash over him, easy as the rain starting to fall from the sky above.

Jackets off, line up to kick off, wait for the referee’s whistle. Then they’re away.

It’s a tense back and forth for the first few – well, twenty – minutes. England are awarded a penalty within easy kicking range, and this time Chris opts for the three points with Owen’s full support. He could kick from there with his eyes closed and they need to get some points on the board.

Two minutes later, New Zealand are pushing up into the England 22, and it’s hard to see how this can end well for their tiny lead. Positive thinking’s all well and good, but these are the All Blacks. Surely there’s no way out of this one?

Well, apparently there is – the referee gives another penalty, Carter decides to kick the penalty, and – he misses. The ball curves slightly, fractionally to the left, missing the posts completely. 3-0 England, and Owen can breathe again. Time to attack, and this time to do it properly.

They drive forwards, almost camped in the opposition half for fifteen minutes. Thirty-seven minutes gone in the match, and Owen knows what he has to do. He’s been putting in the practice, after all.

The call goes out to Ben, who spins the ball back to Owen in the pocket. He takes it, adjusts it in his hands slightly, then drop-kicks it at the posts. Successful drop goal, for what feels like the first time ever in an actual match.

Then they’re up in the Kiwis’ faces again, clock ticking over into the red, and he knows it’s the right choice to go for the drop goal again. Why mess with a winning formula?

With his four successful kicks and Carter’s horror show, it’s 12-0 to England as they go in at halftime. Twickenham’s roaring, believing they can do it. For a split second, Owen’s arrogant enough to cast aside the twenty-match winning streak. His effort and his sacrifice – maybe it will be enough to vanquish the enemy.

Ben claps him on the shoulder when they come into the locker room. “Good start,” he murmurs, and Owen passes him a recovery drink. It’s a good start, but that’s all it is.

Stuart essentially tells them _more of the same please, but maybe with a try or two_ for fifteen minutes, in about six different ways. Owen nods, steely. He knows that’s what’s required. The All Blacks are going to come out firing, he knows from his video review and also his common sense, so it’s important to get on the scoreboard early – stamp their authority on the second half as firmly as they had on the first.

McCaw concedes a penalty at the breakdown – of course he does: is water wet? – and Owen gratefully kicks the points. 15-0. They couldn’t ask for more.

But then, the tide starts to turn, inevitably and inexorably. Savea scores in the corner, which is made all the worse by Owen being the last man stood between him and the line. He goes for it, Brad approaching from the opposite side, but it’s not enough.

He gets up, dusts himself down. Not enough this time, but he’s going to do everything he can to make it work next time.

Carter converts and, within minutes, Read’s touched down on the same wing. The only consolation Owen can draw from it is that it’s Ben’s shitty defence that let them down this time; not very team-spirited of him, but he’s not going to say it to Ben’s face.

Missed conversion, thank fuck, and then – then! Ben passes to Owen, he passes to Brad, who breaks the line and gives it on to Manu. Manu’s tackled and offloads to Brad, and Brad goes over in the corner.

Missed conversion, this time from Owen, and the score is 20-14 with twenty minutes to go. It’s more than enough time for New Zealand to snatch the game from them, but – more importantly – England’s got plenty of time to score again.

And score they do, Ben off the lineout to Manu to Ashy. Owen hates his splash try celebration, but it’s okay in the moment. 25-14, another missed conversion. An eleven-point lead: not unassailable, but decent. Jesus, he’s going to drag them over the line if it kills him.

Maybe he won’t have to – what feels like thirty seconds later, Manu’s intercepted the ball off a loose pass and sprinted to the line. Owen could kiss him.

(He won’t. Wrong kind of 1%, especially now.)

It’s probably a good thing he’s taken off in favour of Burns a few minutes later; his head’s clearly not in the right place to be closing out a game against the All Blacks. No gay stuff, not at this level.

The All Blacks score with five minutes to go, leaving them with twenty-one points in the second half to lose 38-21. It’s the most points England have scored against New Zealand, ever, Owen hears someone yelling at the final whistle, and he wants to cry.

Twenty-match winning streaks count for nothing if you can’t deliver on the day.

He’s helped his team – his team, his boys, his mates – beat the All Blacks. The world champions have been defeated at Twickenham, with no small help from Owen’s kicking. Thank God that drop goal practice paid off, holy fuck. _Seventeen points!_

The lads all gather round in a tight huddle after all the handshakes and the lap of honour. Half the fans have emptied out of the stadium already, but those who are left are keeping the noise level high.

“That was a proper job, boys!” Chris shouts, making eye contact with each and every one of them. “Some rough patches here and there, but we came through and beat the All Blacks!” His eyes take on a fiery gleam.

“Really proud of you all, ‘specially little Faz over here.” Owen flushes as all eyes swivel to him. “Biggest game of his senior career, and he fucking bossed it!” The lads cheer appreciatively, and Dylan slaps him on the back.

God, it’s nice to be the one being praised for once. Criticism and negativity works to an extent – thanks, Andy – but there’s something so buoyant about explicit approval that can lift him out of a slump for days.

Once Chris has finished spewing gratitude everywhere, the circle breaks up as some of the guys go to talk to their families, or take photos under the floodlights.

Owen’s already got enough post-match pictures to fill a whole shelf of photo albums, and the way he’s been acting recently, he wouldn’t be surprised if nobody invited him to be in a group photo.

With regard to family – well, Andy’s here, but going and chatting to a coach at the end of the international window is a bit of a try-hard move, even for him.

He’s hovering on the touch line, wondering if he can insert himself into one of the Saracens shots – it’s mostly the old guys though, might be weird – when Ben comes up to him and drags him across to where Ashy’s stood with a camera, grinning.

“Come on, mate,” Ben half-shouts. “This is a big moment. You might never beat New Zealand again!”

Owen lets Ben hug him, obligingly grimacing at the camera when Ashy instructs them to smile. Ben’s practically vibrating next to him. He’s pretty sure Ben himself has played the All Blacks before, so maybe there’s some truth to his words, and some reason behind his exuberance.

Then again, it’s Ben. Does he ever need a reason for that?

Impromptu photoshoot completed, Owen follows Ben into the changing room. A few bigwigs are hanging around, as usual – it’s Freddie’s first cap, of course, and they probably want to cash in on the kudos of a significant win.

Stuart runs through the highlights of the match, picking out Owen’s drop goals as particularly significant overall. A happy glow smoulders in the pit of his stomach. It was worth it, after all.

(He doesn’t know what he would have done if it hadn’t been enough. He’s not an idiot and he does know where his limits are; he wasn’t leaving much room for error, to put it mildly.)

Then he catches sight of Andy nodding approvingly at him over Stuart’s shoulder, and the happy embers are doused momentarily. From a coach-player perspective, it can only mean good things for him going forward. In a father-son relationship, it’s more complicated. It’s a recognition he used to crave, but now he’d rather Andy left him to it.

If he’s not going to be around for the lows, maybe he shouldn’t be able to lay claim to the highs.

Of all the highs – Premiership win aside – this is definitely the peak.

The dignitaries do their rounds of the locker room, and Owen pastes a smile on his face to hide the exhaustion. It’s been a long few weeks in camp, and too many months of shutdown since tour. He’s ready to go back to Saracens and just – relax a little, maybe.

Ben seems to have the same idea, passing him a can of beer. “Come on, Fazlet,” he says, concern peeking out from behind the omnipresent cheeriness. “You can relax now, okay? Whatever’s been eating at you recently – it doesn’t matter anymore, I promise.”

Owen looks at the beer in his hand, has to force himself not to allow his eyes to drop to the _nutritional information_ label. It’s like Ben says – he can let go for a bit now, at least until the Six Nations.

Slowly, shakily, he cracks open the can. Ben whacks him on the shoulder, some of it sloshing out over his hand. “Atta boy,” he crows. “You can go back to normal, mate, really.” He lowers his voice. “Honestly, you’re good enough without the ten laps in the morning and the hundred press-ups before bed, I promise. It’s your brain that we want, more than how far you can push your body.”

He takes a sip of the beer to avoid replying. It tastes awful. Besides, he’s certain that none of the guys here would want to switch brains with him, if they knew what it was like from the inside. Perhaps he’s going to be able to switch off now, at least for Christmas.

Owen swallows down another mouthful. It doesn’t taste like it should – redemption, victory, whatever. It’s just gross, and he can’t stop a mental log of the calories etching itself in his mind.

Getting out of robot mode might be harder than he was expecting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A replay of the England-New Zealand match described here.](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=eot_UAmVg-I)
> 
> I'd love to hear what you thought about this, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com), and I hope you all have a good week!


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for poor mental health and concussion - although this is a particularly rough chapter, it’s also the start of the upward swing for Owen.

His first match back at the club is a miserable 15-9 loss to Munster. It’s miserable because he could have won the game for them, the conquering hero returning to shower all around him with success. But no – he kicks a measly 4/7 penalties and O’Gara gets all his, and they lose.

The return fixture, one week later – 19-13, victory, one missed drop goal. Better, if still not good.

0-22 win over Bath just before Christmas. Owen’s starting at inside centre, so he can’t claim much credit. Charlie runs the game well, and Jamie comes on from the bench. It’s a nice note to go into the ‘break’ on.

Trip back to Harpenden: not a success. He hides in his room as much as possible for a twenty-one-year-old man, and requisitions Gabriel as a literal buffer from Andy.

Back home. Georgie goes for sex. Successful.

17-16 win against Northampton. He’s on the bench for most of it. Could have done more.

32-12, beating Sale to start the new year off right.

28-37 defeat of Racing 92. Owen scores thirty-two points with a 100% kicking record. _Successful_.

40-7 win against Edinburgh. Snowy. Successful. Not as good as the week before, though.

38-18, Calcutta Cup retained. One missed kick. Probably undeserved POTM.

6-12, beating Ireland. Starting ahead of Floody.

23-12 victory against France. Too many wasted opportunities.

(18-11 win over Italy. Owen doesn’t play. Floody gets all of England’s points.)

30-3. Wales win the match and the title. Owen scores all the points, but that’s not much.

27-12, Harlequins lose.

13-22 win against Wasps. Owen has twelve points; Elliot has six. Jamie’s probably the happiest of the three of them.

27-16, Ulster lose.

(Win against Worcester. Charlie plays the whole game.)

Loss to Gloucester.

Loss to Toulon.

Win against Bath.

Loss to Northampton in the Premiership semi-final.

2013 Lions tour. No longer the youngest, the wunderkind.

Three penalties, three conversions to win against the Barbarians. Elliot gets one penalty for the opposition.

Win against Western Force. Owen scores a try – the first in too long.

Three pathetic points. Eighteen minutes of game time. Win against Waratahs.

Unused off the bench in win against Australia.

Nine points against Melbourne Rebels, but Ben scores a try. They still win, 0-35.

Not used again for the Australia match, in the loss four days later.

Gabriel’s birthday, missed.

Seventeen minutes in the third Test. 16-41 win, not that he does anything to help.

Back home.

Sex with Georgie. Successful.

Successful.

Successful.

Unsuccessful.

Successful.

Unsuccessful.

Unsuccessful.

Six wins in a row.

Loss to Toulouse.

One last Premiership win before England.

Win over Australia. Two penalties, two conversions, one try(!) – could have been more.

Argentina, easily beaten.

Loss to New Zealand. Owen kicks seventeen of England’s twenty-two points. Not good enough.

Win against Sale. Starting at inside centre, no points.

Zebre thrashed, home and away. To be expected.

Leicester, at home. Jamie’s starting, and Ben’s wearing nine for Leicester.

Thirteen points, but then-

_Concussion._

*

He’s not going to be out for long, per se – expected to be back for the game against Toulouse in three weeks, in mid-January.

The club decide he’s of no use to them for the time being, so he’s given a week’s leave to lie in the dark at home and grind his teeth. Georgie tries to help, as always, but the pounding headache and guilt twisting in his stomach can’t be helped much by anyone else. As usual, he has to face the inside of his own head alone.

He’s called back in during the week of the match against Gloucester. While he’s been chewing his hands off from angst and boredom, the calendar has ticked over into 2014. Owen spent his New Year on the sofa, living room lit by the light filtering through from the kitchen, Georgie stroking his hair every time he winced at a firework going off. It wasn’t his finest moment.

Still, Georgie gets a text from the coaches – he’s not allowed too much screen time, and she’d volunteered to be the messenger – that he’s expected to come in for a check-up to determine his progress thus far. He’s not allowed to drive either, so Jamie’s going to pick him up.

The morning of his appointment, he gets dressed, shrugging on a winter coat just in case. He hasn’t gone outside for days, so he’s not entirely sure about the weather conditions. It’s January, and he’d normally be tempted to push through any cold, but Georgie had told him seriously that he’s _fragile at the moment, baby_ , so he’s doing his best to humour her.

A quiet knock comes on the door; he probably wouldn’t have heard it if he wasn’t standing two feet away from it. “Jamie’s here,” he calls through to Georgie – not too loud, to save his head. She’s working from home for the time being, so she dashes through to wave him off mid-call. He accepts her kiss, then steps outside into the bracing air.

Jamie’s stood on the path, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Alright, mate?” he asks, a funny little smile on his face.

Owen nods uncomfortably. With all this time he’s had to focus on the dark blankness of his own head recently, he knows he’s been a dick of the highest order to his friend – or colleague, whatever Jamie considers their relationship to be now.

Jamie opens the passenger door for him, waving to Georgie as he shakily straps himself in. He’s reduced his world to their bedroom and the living room and maybe sometimes the garden, and now he’s being dragged back to reality and the real, big wide world. It’s not scary – he’s a Farrell, he doesn’t do fear – but it’s something more muted, like all his feelings lately.

They drive to the club in silence, the only interruption Jamie asking if he’s warm enough and then turning the heater up anyway. Owen doesn’t know what to do to help the situation, so he lets himself sink back into comfortable, reassuring numbness.

When they arrive, Jamie takes him to the medics and gives him a firm pat on the shoulder before heading off to join the rest of the lads for training. Owen takes a seat in the head doctor’s office and tries not to be bitter.

The doctor – Lee? He has a vague memory of him being called Lee – runs through the standard concussion checks, pronouncing him well on the road to recovery. It helps that he’s been following the rules to the letter, he adds. Apparently some players set themselves back trying to do too much, too soon, or texting their friends all day.

Owen hasn’t done any of that. He’d enjoyed the opportunity to lie in bed all day with no repercussions, if he’s honest with himself. The amount he’s been sleeping recently, it’s been a nice break.

The doctor pauses, seems to shuffle his notes for a second too long, and Owen frowns. He may have been effectively removed from society for a fortnight, but he knows something’s up.

“We have one last check for you to complete before you’re allowed to go home,” Lee says, flicking through his papers more slowly now. “Mick’s office is down the hall – last door on the right. I can take you if you’re not sure where it is.”

Owen declines the assistance, standing up and shaking Lee’s hand before leaving. He’s heard the name before, but he doesn’t know where.

He’s standing in front of the door when it hits him.

 _Michael Lewis, Player Welfare Advisor_ , the plaque reads.

This is the guy, the one that Jamie kept mentioning. His guy – the counsellor/therapist guy. Fuck, they want him to talk to Mick? His heart rate is rising just thinking about it.

Before he can back away, the door swings open. “Good morning, Owen,” someone – Mick says, reaching out a hand to shake. Owen takes it automatically. Mick’s shorter than he had been imagining, when he couldn’t get the thought of _talking to someone_ out of his head in the early hours. He’s about up to his shoulder – George’s height, he thinks randomly – with thick black hair and an easy smile.

“Take a seat,” Mick instructs him, and he complies. Not too bad, so far, though if he allows himself to process the situation any further he might keel over in a panic attack. Knowing his luck at the moment, he’d probably give himself an aneurysm. He represses the swelling anxiety instead. That’s always been his go-to method; safer, for him.

During his brief flap, Mick has sat down opposite him, a few pieces of paper attached to a clipboard in his lap. It’s okay, Owen tells himself. It’s just going to be a couple of questions about how he’s dealing with the concussion. He knows what he should be doing, even if he isn’t doing it, so he’ll pass the test easily.

Mick smiles, like he’s reading his mind. “This isn’t a test,” he says, eyes twinkling. “I know what you rugby players are like. There’s no marks out of ten here, or criteria to meet. I just want to talk for a bit, to see how you’re getting on.”

Owen bites his lip. He likes having a standard to meet, or exceed. _Just_ talking about his _feelings_ sounds awful, and there’s no way this guy isn’t going to pick up on some of his worse habits.

In his defence, he’s known full well what he’s been doing – at least to start with. He doesn’t think that’s going to impress Mick, though.

“Alright,” he says at last, and Mick’s smile widens a fraction. “What do you want to talk about?”

Gradually, he eases into it. Mick maintains a steady, reassuring smile or nodding almost the whole time, in a manner oddly reminiscent of Jamie. He doesn’t disagree with anything Owen says, just keeping smiling and occasionally scribbling something down on his clipboard.

“Okay, I think that’s enough for today,” Mick says decisively, and Owen breathes a sigh of relief. He’s pretty sure he got through that without letting anything major slip, so he should be safe. The guy’s going to pass him as mentally stable, or whatever he was assessing him for, and he can go home and retreat into his comfortable, dark room.

“I’d like to see you again, same time next week,” he continues. Owen’s eyes snap open. _No, no, no – fuck, this wasn’t the plan_. “You haven’t done anything wrong. There’s a few areas I’d like to go into more detail on, that’s all.”

“What are they?” Owen asks, trepidation sinking like lead in his stomach.

Mick looks down at his notes. “If you want to think more about those topics during the week, that would be great,” he says slowly. “I don’t want you beating yourself up, though, or trying to drastically change your habits.”

“I won’t,” Owen promises. He needs to know what he’s doing that’s apparently so fucked up that Mick’s picked up on it.

“Well…” Mick starts uncertainly, rolling his pen between his fingers, “I’d be tempted to ask about your personal relationships, with friends as well as family. Diet, too, although that’s a common one for athletes, so I wouldn’t worry too much.”

Mick might not worry too much, but Owen? Jesus Christ, his head’s spinning worse than when he literally regained consciousness after the concussion. He’s identified Owen’s biggest problem areas within a one-hour session, seemingly without asking any questions specifically about them.

Fuck, he’s screwed if he has to come back here more than once. Mick will be having him spilling his deepest, darkest secrets – the 1% comes swimming into his mind unbidden – through whatever dark arts he’s practising, and Owen won’t be able to stop it.

“Okay,” he croaks out, when he realises Mick is watching him with concern. “Same time next week?”

“If that works for you,” Mick says. “I can be reasonably flexible with appointment times.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he rushes to correct himself. “I don’t have anything better to be doing, anyway.”

The corners of Mick’s mouth tighten slightly, and Owen wants to hit himself.

(Three emotions in the space of an hour? He’s going to pass out from the overload if he’s not careful.)

“Fine,” Mick says, taking out a diary. “I’ll book you in for next week, and I’ll send a confirmation email so you don’t forget.”

Owen nods. Shutting down is the easiest way to deal with this stuff, he knows. “Thank you,” he says politely. “I appreciate it.”

“I’ll see you next week,” Mick says, standing up to open the door. “Have a good one.”

“You too,” Owen replies, and it’s all he can manage to get around the corner and out of Mick’s sight before he’s crouching on the floor, grabbing at his head.

_Shit, he’s fucking screwed. This guy’s going to see right through him. Fucking hell. Fuck, after all he’s worked on._

A low moan escapes through his teeth, and he realises belatedly that he’s yanking on his hair.

_Stupid thing to do with a concussion. Get a grip, Farrell._

This next week’s going to be rough, he can tell already.

*

Still, he pushes through the invasive thoughts and uninvited emotions in practically the only way he knows. Outside of training, he only really talks to Georgie – she’s frustrated about their lack of a sex life again, but there isn’t much he can do about that from his side.

Jamie texts once to confirm that he’s going to be collecting him again for his appointment, and that’s all the contact he has with the outside world for a week. He can’t say he’s much bothered. Two’s a crowd when staring at a wall for hours on end is your preferred activity.

Nevertheless, he obediently gets into the car on Tuesday morning. He has more physical tests to complete, although an easy 99% of his nerves are due to the session with Mick.

(Again with the 1%, Christ.)

Jamie walks him to the door of Mick’s office, leaves him there with a small smile and a pat on the arm. It’s more contact than they’ve had in months, outside of training. He doesn’t let Owen get away with a quick escape out to the pitches either, rapping on the door and shooting him a knowing look.

He has to smile at that, if only to show Jamie that the gesture’s appreciated. Deep down, he knows this is something he should be doing – maybe should have started a long time ago. That doesn’t stop him want to run for the hills, though.

“Come in!” Mick calls, and Owen, steeling himself, opens the door. He’s thought about the suggested topics – relationships and diet – so he’s as prepared as possible. He has answers to every conceivable question sorted in his head, like he’s ready for a press conference. This shouldn’t be too difficult; he’s been media trained for years.

“Hi, Owen.” Mick stands up to shake his hand, and Owen smiles reflexively at him. “How’s your week been? How are you doing?”

He shrugs, dropping into the chair across from the therapist – is that his title? He should ask. “It’s been – yeah, fine, I guess. Bored, but then I don’t have anything to do.”

“Right,” Mick says, and he’s already scribbling on his notepad. How has Owen messed up already? He’s barely said two words. “Have you been in touch with friends or family at all? Your parents live nearby, am I right?”

“Yeah, my mum and Andy, and my sisters and little Gabe,” he says. Mick chews on the end of his pen for a moment before adding another note. “I didn’t talk to them, though.”

“Do you mind if I ask why? Everything you say in this room is fully confidential, of course.”

Owen twists his hands together in his lap, then realises that it’s probably another indicator of _something_ and sits on them. “I just – don’t. I’d talk to my mum and the girls, but not Andy.”

Mick leans back, considering. “Humour me here, Owen. Andy’s your dad, the England defence coach?”

“That’s him,” he says. What’s Mick playing at? Of course he knows who Andy is it – he’s worked at Saracens for years, according to Jamie.

“So… Andy’s the sticking point for your interactions with the rest of your family, correct? He’s the one stopping you talking to them?”

He sighs. It’s complicated, so much so that it would likely be easier to just live with it instead of trying to explain it. That’s what he’d done with Jamie, after all. “He’s not – he doesn’t actively stop me talking to them. I’d just rather not when he’s around, just in case.”

“Just in case,” Mick repeats. “What are you worried is going to happen, Owen?”

Why does he keep saying Owen’s name? Is that some trick that’s meant to help? It’s like he’s trying to hypnotise him, or something.

“He hasn’t _done_ anything to me, as such,” he starts. “I’m probably just being a wuss. The house is just really uncomfortable and tense when he’s around, so I try to avoid it.”

“Okay,” Mick says slowly. “Can you give me any specific examples? You moved out a while ago, so I realise the memories might not be as fresh.”

The wrestling incident is the first thing that pops into his head. He can’t start with that, surely? Mick will probably think he’s being abused or some dramatic shit like that, if that’s his starting point.

“I can tell there’s something coming to mind,” Mick says. “It’s okay if you’re not comfortable telling me, but it might do you good.”

“Okay,” Owen breathes out. He can’t think of anything else, so he might as well get it out of the way.

“There was this one time, nearly seven years ago now. My mate George had come round because – well, he just did – and somehow we ended up playfighting on my bed. Like, just wrestling, nothing more to it. I was fifteen, he was fourteen, and it was totally platonic.”

His chest is tightening just thinking about it. He wants to go back in time and tell his younger self to stay away from George. That kind of fooling around could be done in the park, but not in his room while Andy was in the house.

“And then we stopped and were lying on the bed, breathing kind of hard, and Andy came in. He must have thought we were kissing or something, and he started spewing all this homophobic shit. We weren’t even doing anything, and he still was shouting at us.”

“And you were fifteen?” Mick checks. He hasn’t written anything down for a few minutes, and Owen nods. “Owen, that sounds awful. Being targeted for no reason is never fair. Trying to stay out of his way while living in the house must have been so difficult.”

He nods again, eyes watering. Yeah, it was fucking hard, and he’s glad someone’s finally acknowledging it.

“I don’t want to push too hard, so feel free not to answer,” Mick continues, “but – was there any truth behind Andy’s accusations? Like, were there any feelings between you two? I don’t like to assume these things, that’s all.”

Owen scrubs at his eyes. “George, my mate – he’s gay. Came out to me about six months before.” There’s a confession sitting on his tongue, immense in its significance.

“And you?” Mick asks softly. “Remember this doesn’t leave this room, and it can be good to talk about things.”

He wipes his eyes once more, scratches at the back of his neck. “I’m – ah.” He can’t look at Mick, instead staring at his scuffed trainers on the carpet. “I’m not 100% sure,” he gets out finally, in a tiny voice.

“Thanks for telling me,” Mick says, and he’s smiling when Owen sneaks a look at his face. “I just – I can’t imagine what it must have been like, living with someone for years who was homophobic while you’re questioning your sexuality.”

“I wasn’t – questioning it, I guess, at the time,” Owen says, the words suddenly flowing more easily now. “That was more recent, like, in the last two years.”

“Still,” Mick says, tapping his pen against his chin. “Knowing that that’s the kind of reception you would get if you ever dared to be something not straight – that would have affected your thought processes around your sexuality significantly. Maybe you only started thinking about it in the last two years because you subconsciously felt safer to do so.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Owen says. “I have a girlfriend, though – I can’t talk to her about this stuff.”

Mick smiles at him. “Well, you can talk to me. If you still talk to George, or you have any other non-straight friends, they would be a good choice too.”

“Yeah, I could talk to Jamie,” he decides. “Hang on, fuck – am I allowed to say that? Did you know that?”

Mick chuckles. “Normally I wouldn’t break patient confidentiality, but seen as Jamie has talked to me extensively about that – and you – over the years, then yes, I did know. He would be an excellent person to talk to about sexuality stuff, especially as you’re both in the same work environment.”

Owen wants to ask why Jamie’s been talking about him, but he keeps his mouth shut. Mick definitely wouldn’t tell him that, and he should ask Jamie himself. “Alright,” he settles on, finally. “I’ll give it a go.”

“Good,” Mick says, closing his notebook. “Same time next week?” Owen nods – that should give him time to get a grip and talk to Jamie. “Okay. Good work today, Owen.”

He shakes Mick’s hand and leaves the room. He’s not about to cry this week, although there is a nervous energy buzzing under his skin. He hadn’t quite come out and said it directly, but the 1% is definitely out there now, even if only in the confidential confines of the welfare room.

It’s a start.

*

The next few weeks pass without him saying anything to Jamie, though the words are on the tip of his tongue more than once. Wins over Toulouse and Connacht in the Champions Cup keep him focused on the straight and narrow, quite literally.

He still hasn’t broached the subject by the time England camp starts for the Six Nations, although he has managed some small talk in the car with his friend. From the smiles he’s getting on the way to training, he thinks Jamie appreciates the effort.

Leaving the newfound safety and reassurance that Mick brings is harder than he would have expected. Owen’s only been doing this therapy thing for a month, and already he feels almost dependent on it. Mick’s promised that he can set up remote meetings on Skype if he needs them, but he’s still feeling a bit unmoored.

There are seven Saracens in the initial squad as well as him, and a few of his U20s mates have made the step up – Matt Kvesic from Gloucester, Jack from Exeter, and Anthony from Bath. He’s not the youngest anymore (Anthony’s still a teenager) so those jokes are out the window. He’s got nineteen caps, about average for this team. He’s not a rookie anymore. More pressure, more experience.

(It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t remember most of the matches he played in 2013, even the Lions ones. He still did it, and there’s got to be some muscle memory remaining.)

“Ayup, Faz!” Ben chirps when he walks into their room at Pennyhill. Owen rolls his eyes, though the reaction is mostly fond. He really doesn’t know why he let things slide with his friend for so long.

“Hi, mate,” he says, dumping his stuff on the bed. “How’re you doing?”

“Good, yeah,” Ben says. “Didn’t really want to get here this early, but has to be done, you know?”

“Why?” Owen asks curiously. Ben’s always been the enthusiastic one; he’s not much for resentment.

“Charlotte’s a bit nervous about being by herself in the house, what with the baby and all,” Ben says. He’s got his phone clutched in his hand, like it might go off at any moment.

But, hang on- “Baby?” Owen asks, confused.

“Uh, yeah?” Ben says. “Mate, I told you this like a month ago. She’s pregnant.”

“Oh, wow. Congratulations,” Owen says. How had he forgotten this?

Ben smiles. “That’s what you said last time, mate. You need to get your head checked out if you don’t remember that, though, especially after the concussion.”

Owen nods, turns away. Shit, maybe he does need a physical reassessment – or maybe it’s something he can talk about with Mick. If he’s forgetting this much stuff, he’s got a problem. Can early-onset dementia start at twenty-two?

“She’s due end of August,” Ben fills in, but Owen’s already distracted, typing out a draft email to Mick.

_Hi_

_I know I’m meant to be fine now, but I think I keep forgetting things. I don’t know what happened most of last year apart from the results of our matches. Ben just told me his girlfriend’s pregnant and I’d forgotten that he’d texted me about it three weeks ago._

_Is this normal??_

_Owen_

He saves the draft and puts his phone away. Maybe he can rewrite it once he’s calmed down, so the tone isn’t quite so panicked. He doesn’t want to worry Mick, or make a mountain out of a molehill.

Owen looks back to Ben, casting around for something to talk about. With most of the last year a blank in his memory, he’s not sure what there is to discuss, or what Ben’s told him that has already slipped his mind.

“Watched any league recently?” It’s the first thing that comes to mind that isn’t weirdly personal or uncomfortably distant.

“A bit, yeah,” Ben says, putting his phone down on the bed next to him. “It was the World Cup in November, right?”

“Yeah,” Owen says. He knows he went to one of the matches at Wembley, he’s sure about that, but the rest of the details are a bit fuzzy. “My uncle scored a try in the semi-final.”

That must have been the game he went to watch; he wouldn’t have been able to get time off otherwise.

Ben shakes his head. “Mate, your family are bonkers. Next you’ll be telling me that your girlfriend’s brother plays cricket for England.”

Owen smiles, awkward because of the reference to Georgie. “No, it’s just the Farrells – and the O’Loughlins, I suppose. My parents’ families.”

“I reckon it’s something in the water up there,” Ben says wisely. “Makes all you Wigan boys grow up big and strong and with a tendency to play dangerous contact sports.” He laughs at his own joke. “Actually – speaking of league Wigan boys, how’s Fordy getting on? He wasn’t in the World Cup, was he?”

“Nah, he was in the squad right up to the final cut,” Owen says. He’s confident on this, even if he doesn’t know how George is doing on a personal level. “They only get twenty-four because they have less players overall, and he didn’t make it.”

Ben whistles through his teeth. “Yeesh. That must have sucked for him.” Owen makes a non-committal noise. He can imagine, though he doesn’t know. “Mind you, he is only – what, twenty? He’s got a long time left.”

“I think he’s focused on Leeds for now,” Owen says. Plausible deniability covers a wealth of sins and lacking communication.

Ben nods, clearly happy to take his word for it. “Well, good luck to him. Us small guys have to look out for each other.”

Owen lets the conversation lapse. It’s more interaction that he’s willingly had with anyone outside of training or Georgie since – well, he can’t remember when, and that’s becoming a theme, isn’t it? He gets out his phone again, rereads the email. There’s no way of making his concerns sound less paranoid, so he sends it unedited.

Mick will have an answer, or at the very least a concerned look and a smile. He’s not starved for attention or anything, but it’s nice having someone tell him he’s okay every now and again.

*

The first match is a 26-24 loss to France.

(Nigel Owen is the referee, and Owen makes sure to smile properly at him in the handshake line afterwards. Billy’s looming right over his shoulder and he’s not willing to expose himself to that kind of bigotry, so he keeps his mouth shut. Nigel seems to appreciate it, anyway.)

A win, 0-20 against Scotland.

(Owen only has a 33% success rate off the tee, but then Laidlaw misses both his chances. It’s a relief, nothing more or less.)

13-10 over Ireland.

(It’s Valentine’s Day in the week off. In his new/resumed decision to _make an effort_ and _not go so robotic he misses a year_ , he spends the day with Georgie, who seems overwhelmed by the attention. He flirts with the idea of calling in to Saracens to talk to Mick, who’d been characteristically concerned by his email, but ultimately decides not to. He should be spending this time with Georgie.)

A 29-18 win against Wales, at home.

(In a battle of the kickers, Owen emerged victorious: 7/7 for him, 6/6 for Halfpenny. He almost feels like he can relax into it now – especially with Italy next week.)

11-52! 11-52! All eight kicks, and a try before halftime. Thank _fuck_.

(It feels like things are properly easing in his chest now. He writes a happy birthday message to George on the flight back, and doesn’t have to spend too long agonising over it before he sends it. The reply – _thanks mate_ , accompanied by a heart – is enough to make him smile, tension ebbing away. Second in the championship doesn’t seem too bad now, only beaten by +10 of points difference. Tentatively, he’d call it a successful tournament.)

Ben hugs him at the airport as they’re preparing to disband. “Good job, mate,” he says seriously. “And – thanks for not doing the running thing _every_ morning this time. Much more relaxing for both of us, I’m sure.”

He squeezes his friend briefly before releasing him. “You’re welcome. Good luck with the baby, and all that.”

Ben shakes his head, though he’s grinning. “Yeah, can’t wait for the chaos. When do we play each other next – end of the season, isn’t it?”

He nods. “Start of May, at yours.”

“Alright then, mate.” Ben steps away. “See you soon.”

Owen raises his hand in farewell, then heads outside. Georgie’s supposed to be meeting him in the carpark, and he shouldn’t make her wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come and talk to me on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


	32. Chapter 32

Wins over Quins, Wasps, Ulster, Northampton, Newcastle, Clermont, and Worcester bring them to the final game of the regular season – Saracens against Leicester at Welford Road. Neither he or Ben are playing, although Jamie’s starting the match.

But that’s not what’s important, not for Owen, not right now. Sure, the Heineken Cup final and (most likely) Premiership semi-final and final are looming, but he’s actually making some headway with Mick.

They hadn’t spoken via Skype during the Six Nations in the end, in spite of his panicky SOS email, but the regular routine of weekly appointments was resumed as soon as Owen was back on club duty.

Mick had been pretty worried in their first session after the break. For all his unflappable exterior, Owen could see that there was more urgency in his notetaking and his questioning.

After half an hour ascertaining that, yes, he really didn’t remember much from last year – he could reel off the match scores no problem, for some reason, but not much else – Mick had put the lid on his pen and set it aside.

“Owen,” he’d said, resting his chin on steepled fingers, “what do you know about depression?”

Back then, he hadn’t known much, as it turned out. Mick had patiently explained how memory loss on the scale he’d experienced was sometimes associated with depression, as well as his lack of interest in socialising, eating – anything that wasn’t his job, in short.

He’d let Owen have a few minutes to process the information. It made sense, was the worst thing. Robot mode hadn’t caused it, he can see now, but it made him miss the signs of depression because he thought he was choosing such a ‘dedicated’ lifestyle.

With the concussion, as well – “You’re lucky we caught it when we did,” Mick tells him, a few days before the Leicester match. “After a year, that kind of behaviour can become normalised once everyone starts expecting it from you, and then it’s not seen as a symptom of illness, but just how you are.”

Owen turns the small box over in his hands, studying the label and all the small print. “So you think this will help?” he asks.

“Among other things,” Mick confirms. “You’ve already taken steps to get back in touch with friends, which is a really important part of recovery, and your diet is improving too. Antidepressants will most likely make the whole process a bit easier.”

“Okay,” he says, stilling the nervous tapping of his feet. “How long do I take them for?”

“Assuming no side effects in the first month, six months overall, one tablet per day. Hopefully that will be long enough for you to be a significant way through your recovery, although we can’t put a timeline on these things. We’ll reassess then.”

Owen nods. He understands that now. Like concussions, mental health issues don’t go away all at once. They’re unpredictable and have to be carefully managed.

“Should I start taking them now?” he asks, the thought suddenly occurring to him. “If I might get side effects, the team-”

“The team will want to see you healthy more than anything,” Mick cuts in. “And don’t give me that look – I’ve spoken to the team doctors and they agree with me. If you decide to begin the course of drugs now, one of the doctors will inform the coaches, just in case. You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last.”

Owen bites his lip. “What about tour? That’s in – well, a month, pretty much. I can’t miss that.”

Mick shrugs. “Look, it’s your call, but I wouldn’t be comfortable passing you as fit to play right now. Saracens is one thing – you’re at home, in a familiar environment, with a support network around you. I’m not saying that the England squad is less understanding, but there’s more competition by necessity. Your recovery and mental wellbeing is more important than a few Test matches, no matter what you might think.”

“But I was fine before!” he blurts. Mick can’t stop him from touring, surely. He’d thought counselling was going to derail his career for years, and it seems like he’s been proven right.

Mick holds up his hands. “At the end of the day, it’s down to you, Owen. Just think about it, okay? That can be your homework for this week. Now, if you don’t have any questions – the doc wants to have a chat about the antidepressants, so you should head there now.”

“Fine,” Owen says, in a tone which is absolutely not sulky or petulant. “See you next week.”

Walking away down the corridor, he shoves the pills into his pocket. Fuck, if they’re going to stop him going to New Zealand, he’s going to be so pissed off. He’s been getting better without the drugs anyway – maybe he can just not take them for a few months, until the end of tour? It’d only be another six weeks, after sixteen months of being allegedly fine.

What harm could it do?

*

The team doctors talk him out of his plan pretty quickly, as does Georgie when she finds the box, still in his shorts pocket in the washing basket.

“What’s this, love?” she asks, the Friday morning before the Leicester game. “Citalopram – what’s that?”

He feels his heart skip a beat, resisting the urge to hide under the covers where he’s still lying in bed. “It’s, um, medication,” he says hesitantly. He’s telling the truth, so why does he feel so shifty about it?

“For what?” Georgie’s reading the label now. Maybe he should let her find out herself, or he could just-

“Depression,” he gets out, and then he does roll over and bury his face in the pillow. Shit, shit, fuck. Oh God, she’s definitely going to ditch him now. A rugby player boyfriend is one thing; a depressed rugby player boyfriend is a very different concept.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and he flinches. Christ, he should have got rid of that box as soon as Mick had given it to him – never should have taken it in the first place.

If he could go back in time to the last time he played Leicester, to shake some sense into his younger but equally stupid self and tell him not to knock himself out making a tackle, he would. Without the concussion, he would never have had to talk to Mick. He’d be miserable as shit, yes, but at least his international career and his relationship wouldn’t be in danger.

“Baby,” Georgie says softly. “I’m not mad, I promise. It’s okay. I wanted to say something for ages, but I’m so happy you’ve made the decision yourself.”

He grunts, muffled by the pillow. It wasn’t his choice, but she doesn’t know that and he’s not about to disillusion her.

“Are you taking them now?” A few tearing noises, a crackle of plastic. It sounds like she’s opening the packet to inspect the contents; something he hadn’t dared to do.

“Not sure.” He can at least be honest with her about this – she’s been on the receiving end of most of his blank days, after all. “Team docs say they might take me off the England tour if I do.”

Georgie tugs at him until he turns back over, pulls his head to rest against her leg. “Which is more important, though? One tour – what’s that, five games? – or your happiness? I don’t want to be dramatic about it, but I know which one I’d pick.”

“But England,” he argues. “I need to play, or they’ll drop me. I’ve only got twenty-four caps. If I was more important, maybe I could get away with it, but I’m not. What would I say, anyway? Andy would kill me if I told the truth, and nobody would take me seriously.”

“Sweetheart,” she murmurs, stroking at his hair, “it doesn’t matter what people think. Andy least of all. The people who really care about you – me, your mum, Jamie, your other friends – we want you to be happy.”

She sighs. “If going on this tour makes you happy, then you should do it. In the long run, though, I think starting to take the tablets will do you more good.”

He sighs, echoing her frustration. “I’ll think about it. Now, shouldn’t you be off to work?” She nods, pressing a kiss to his forehead before leaving the room.

Alone again, he exhales into the emptiness around him. He wants to get better, really, but not at the cost of England. Would his ten-year-old self be impressed to learn that he’d given up the chance for more caps because of mental health? Would his twenty-year-old self, high on his international debut?

It’s difficult. England makes him happy, he’s sure, but he wants to be happy without the game. He wants to be able to go round to Jamie’s house and tease him about Elliot, like before. He doesn’t want to spend the next fifteen years of his life staring at walls and missing out on life.

He grinds his teeth together before getting out of bed. Maybe he should talk to a few of the guys to see what they think, if the team will actually support him.

*

Jamie’s the obvious choice, as with most things. His friend seems almost giddy with excitement when Owen tentatively brings up the possibility of him coming round after training the next week.

(Leicester beat them 31-27, but that doesn’t feel like it matters right now.)

“Really?” Jamie says, double checking as they make their way out to the carpark after the Tuesday contact session. “Like, now?”

“In a few hours, maybe,” Owen says. He’s not going to back out like a wimp, but he needs to collect himself first. Get it together; work out what he’s going to say.

“Okay, mate,” Jamie beams. “Does seven work for you?”

Owen nods, then walks to his own car. He’s committed now.

He tells Georgie where he’s going, and she sends him out the door after tea with a kiss. He promises to text her when he gets to Jamie’s, and heads out.

It’s going to be fine. He hasn’t done one-on-one socialising in a while, but it’s Jamie. He won’t make it awkward, and if all else fails, he can distract him by bringing up Elliot. Owen’s heard rumours that Elliot’s going to make the squad for tour – Jamie will be happy to talk about that for hours, he’s certain.

Hands only slightly sweating on the steering wheel, he indicates to pull into Jamie’s drive, so familiar and yet not at the same time. He takes a breath, texts Georgie that he’s arrived. _So far, so good_.

If Jamie’s noticed him sitting outside for four minutes (he’s hyperaware of just how long he’s been putting it off for), he hasn’t made it obvious, for which Owen is grateful. This whole – _thing_ is hard enough by itself, without any kind of peer pressure.

Eventually, he levers himself out of the car and walks up to the front door. His heart’s pounding, adrenaline spiking. It’s going to be okay, he tells himself firmly. Jamie’s a good guy. He won’t throw him out, or tell everyone. It’s going to be okay.

Owen rings the doorbell. It’s perhaps overly formal, given he lived in this house for years, but the final barrier of those last few seconds before his friend opens the door calms him. It’s an illusion, like maybe Jamie won’t be home for some strange reason, and the whole conversation can be delayed until tomorrow, or even later if he’s lucky.

A key rattles in the lock. He’s committed now; no backing out.

“Fazlet!” Jamie says with a broad grin. “Come in, mate. It’s good to see you.”

“You saw me three hours ago at training,” Owen points out as he takes his shoes off.

Jamie clucks his tongue, locks the door again. “Yeah, but – it’s different. This isn’t work, you know? You don’t have to be here, but you are.”

Maybe Jamie’s saying it in a well-meaning way, but Owen’s far enough out of his slump to recognise the hurt behind the words. He had basically disappeared off the face of the earth for a year, and he’s never going to be able to apologise enough.

“How are you, anyway?” he asks. Jamie’s already going through to the kitchen to put the kettle on – some things don’t change.

“Same old, same old,” Jamie says, shrugging when Owen joins him. “Eat, sleep, train, repeat. Not as strict as you, obviously, but I’ve got to be ready for the semi.”

Either he’s being unnecessarily sensitive or the depression properly messed him up, because practically everything Jamie says is making him feel awkward. He was focused on rugby to the exclusion of all else for months on end, and that was without being a permanent backup like Jamie is for Schalk.

It just makes his behaviour seem even more ridiculous and stupid and unnecessary.

(The worst bit is, he’s not fully confident that he’s all the way out of the spiral yet. He’s clawing his way up, but he’s aware of just how precarious his grip is.)

“Well, uh,” he starts, then breaks off as Jamie hands him his cup of tea. “That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Jamie looks at him with surprise. “You’re not nervous, are you? Mate, you’ve played way bigger matches than this.”

He stares at the reflective surface of the tea, ripples breaking across it from the quivering of his hands. “Not Quins. More… the strict regime thing, the not seeing anyone outside the club for ages.”

“Okay,” Jamie says, taking a seat at the table. Owen waits for him to continue, but he’s clearly leaving space for him to fill. It’s a kind gesture, but he really wishes Jamie were in one of his more expansive moods right now.

“It’s, um – so I’ve been talking to Mick,” he says all in a rush, “since the concussion back in December.” He doesn’t move to sit across from Jamie; this is hard enough without looking at him. “It’s been good – helpful, even. But during the Six Nations, I noticed I had, like, a lot of gaps in my memory from last year?”

Jamie’s nodding in his peripheral vision. Owen tries to block him out.

“He said it was…” He stops, swallows down a mouthful of tea. “Depression, most likely.”

An sharp inhale of breath from the table.

“So, like, that’s a thing that we should probably talk about, but the main issue I’m having at the moment is-” he takes a moment to breathe- “is that Mick and the team doctors and Georgie all think I should go on antidepressants, and I don’t know what the side effects will be from that, and Mick says he doesn’t think I should go on the England tour, and I don’t know if I should or not.”

He turns to Jamie at last, who’s wide-eyed. “That’s – that’s a lot, mate. Shit, do you want a hug?”

Trembling slightly, Owen puts down his tea and nods. Jamie gets up and wraps him up in a tight hug. For all he’s five inches shorter, he’s a lot broader, and it helps Owen feel safe. He knows he can trust Jamie, and this is just proof of that.

“Do you want to take this through to the living room?” Jamie asks quietly. “It could take a while, and we’d be more comfortable in there.” Owen mumbles his agreement, and Jamie steers them through so they’re sat on the same sofa, a couple of inches between them.

“The way I see it,” Jamie starts, “is you have two separate problems here. Well, maybe three. The depression, the antidepressants, and whether you go on tour. Would that be accurate?”

Owen nods, huddling into the sofa cushions. This is one of Jamie’s strengths – analysing situations objectively, but with compassion. He does it all the time in video review, critiquing a missed tackle honestly and fairly, and Owen knows from previous experience that it transfers over into personal matters too.

“Okay, and correct me if I’m wrong, but your perspective is something like this: depression bad, but you’re not sure if the drugs will help, and how they’ll impact your rugby. Going on tour is a risk, with or without the antidepressants. Yes? No?”

Owen nods again. He doesn’t trust his voice on something like this, but Jamie’s spot on, as usual.

“For me, I’d rather see you happy than playing at what you might consider your best rugby,” Jamie says earnestly, maintaining eye contact. “Everyone says it’s our whole lives, but it isn’t, not really. It’s a job, and we have to look after ourselves outside of it too.”

 _But it is_ , Owen wants to blurt out. Rugby’s been everything for him since he was a toddler, and he can’t just change his mindset overnight.

What comes out instead is, “But I have to play my best rugby, for the team. It’s a team sport, and I have to do my best, for them, or it’s not fair.” He might sound a little whiny, but Jamie will have to forgive him.

Jamie hums. “It’s a team sport, but it’s a team made up of individuals. All the different people in the team have to be functioning properly – physically, mentally, whatever – so we can connect on and off the pitch and work together.”

Mental wellbeing has never really come into the equation for Owen. Physical wellbeing, of course, but he’s always managed to operate relatively successfully regardless of his mental state. He’s played some of his best rugby when he’s been up at six in the morning, trying not to wake Georgie with his wet, uneven breathing, or after an absolute sledging from Andy.

“Alright, I can tell you don’t believe me,” Jamie says, in a tone strangely reminiscent of Mick. “Let’s try an exercise – humour me on this, mate. Just think about the last time you were really, properly happy, and how you were playing. You don’t have to tell me; just think about it. Was it fun? Were you seeing things you might not have noticed on other days? Was it all flowing a bit easier?”

Owen closes his eyes. The first game that comes to mind is that first training session of U18s with George, when Fletch put them together and they just – clicked. The rush of exhilaration, the plays they made that nobody had a right to, especially not two teenagers working together for the first time.

And then that first match of the Six Nations, ten tries against Scotland. Something to do with the quality of the opposition, for sure, but also the giddy excitement of taking to the pitch and _knowing_ that, with George alongside him, he was going to do something incredible.

When he opens his eyes again, Jamie’s gone all blurry, and he has to blink away the wetness clouding his vision. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Yeah, it was.”

With George over in league, he’s never going to have that same rush again, but maybe he’ll get close with others. He’d like to think he’s a strong enough flyhalf to not be shoved out to the centres, but it would be fun to try the double playmaker model again.

“And that wasn’t a one-time thing,” Jamie says. “No matter who you’re playing with, you can have that same excitement and proper love of the game, as long as you’re in the right mindset. Not pushing so hard you hurt yourself, but going just far enough to stretch for greater things.”

Okay, he’s upgrading Jamie from being a pseudo-Mick to being a literal psychic. _Jesus Christ_. It’s what he’s been trying to tell himself for weeks now, that relaxing and enjoying life can contribute more to his game than endless laps of St Albans and kicking practice. Hearing it from someone else – who, most importantly, isn’t Mick – makes him feel like he can believe it, and maybe even start implementing it.

Too childlike for his own comfort, he asks, “So, like, I can be more chill, and the team won’t mind?”

Jamie laughs a little, patting Owen’s knee. “Speaking as a representative of the team – no, we won’t mind. We haven’t been talking behind your back about it, exactly, but most people have been kind of worried about you recently.”

_Oh, great. Because that’s supposed to make him feel better._

On the other hand – if Jamie can talk through one problem so easily and logically, maybe he can do the same for his other issues.

“Based on that, I suppose you think I should go on the antidepressants, then,” Owen says. His throat’s still scratchy, though his eyes are dry.

“Well, yes,” Jamie says, like it’s obvious. “You’ve been doing better recently, but you’re starting from such a low point that anything that might help you along would be good in my book.”

“And the team-”

“Want you to be happy, mate,” Jamie says. A little edge is creeping into his voice, and Owen feels bad for not getting it. “I’d rather you took a few months out, whatever you need, than coming into training one morning and having Mark tell us that you offed yourself in the night, okay?”

“Okay,” Owen repeats. His eyes are starting to sting again. “So you’re saying yes to the antidepressants?” He needs to check. Jamie’s opinion matters to him.

“Yes, but you don’t need my approval, or anyone else’s.” Jamie’s jaw is tense, and Owen can see his fingers flexing around his mug. “Just – you do what you need to do, and we’ll support you in that.”

“Right.” He’s worried that, if he says anything else, he’s properly going to set Jamie off. He’s halfway to crying – he doesn’t need that as well.

“And tour? Look, it’s not my place to decide for you, but if Mick’s concerned, I would be inclined to agree with him. He’s got good judgement on these things.”

“How long have you been talking to him?” Owen asks. Maybe changing the subject will ease the tension in the room.

“Since he joined the club four years ago, and then I was with the woman he replaced for a while before that as well.” Jamie’s looking out of the window now, his gaze distant.

Owen’s honestly impressed. He hadn’t ever summoned up the courage to visit the welfare advisor until it was mandated by the club, even when he thought he probably should, and here’s Jamie admitting to doing it when he was sixteen or so. God, he’s weak.

Then he catches himself. He’s having this conversation now, of his own accord, and that’s a start. As Mick’s repeatedly emphasised to him, he was likely hindered by a significant obstacle in the form of an angry man from Wigan.

He’s not weak. He’s strong.

(He’s still working on convincing himself of that.)

He and Jamie chat for a while longer, moving onto easier topics. Owen can’t fully set the first half of the conversation aside, as hard as he tries. It’s buzzing around in his head like a crazed bumblebee, with no way out. Still, he pushes it aside as much as possible and focuses on having a good catchup with his friend.

It’s a step in the right direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you thought about this, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).
> 
> Also, if you’re looking for some cheerier fic, I’m posting two Christmas works on Monday and Wednesday, as well as the usual two updates for this - so watch out for those!


	33. Chapter 33

His next port of call is his mum. Maybe she should have been higher up the list, but he’d had to wait until after the semi-final to find a time when Andy wouldn’t be around. It does mean he’s cutting it very close on making his decision about tour – the squad’s being named in a week and a half – but he thinks it’s necessary.

“Morning, pet,” she says fondly, welcoming him into the house with a hug. “How are you?”

It’s mid-Monday morning, the day after the match, so he’s free all day and his mum’s just dropped Gabriel off at nursery while the girls are at school. Andy is presumably at Pennyhill, but it doesn’t matter to Owen where he is so long as he’s not about to interrupt.

“I’m – good, actually, thanks,” he says, thinking about his answer. Not just saying an automatic _fine_ has been a hard habit to break, but he’s making progress.

She smiles brightly, clearly picking up on his sincerity. “That’s great, darling. I’m glad to hear it.”

“Is there anything I can help with?” He’s not sure he’s going to be able to get through this conversation without something to do with his hands.

“I’ve just put the washing on, so you can peg that out once it’s finished,” his mum says, glancing around the room. “That’s about it, though, love, thanks. I’d rather just have a nice chat instead of sending you off to do chores!”

He smiles at her fondly. The washing will be done in half an hour tops, so he’s got a restricted window in which to drag the conversation around to tour and all the associated complications.

“Come on,” she says decisively, “let’s go and sit down. You played well yesterday – you shouldn’t be standing for too long.” He lets himself be chivvied through to the living room, taking a seat in what was formerly his favourite armchair. Colleen’s sat on the other side of the room, probably for the best.

Soul-baring emotional honesty comes more easily with his friends (and Jamie particular) than with his mum, after all.

They’re barely through the pleasantries, asking how Georgie is and how Gabe’s getting on with his numbers, when his mum brings up tour. “Are you looking forward to it, love? Your dad’s quite excited – the coaches think you’ve got a chance of pushing them, apparently.”

He clears his throat. _Here goes nothing._ “Actually, I’m not sure whether I’m going or not.”

She frowns. “What do you mean? I know nothing’s 100% confirmed, but you’re a shoo-in. Who else have they got?”

“Not like that.” He suddenly wishes he had something to hold on to – Jamie had been smart by giving him a cup to cling to. “I think I might withdraw.”

“But – darling, you’re healthy, aren’t you? You didn’t look injured yesterday.” He feels bad for making her worry, but he’s struggling to get the words out. Talking around the subject is so much easier than confronting it head-on.

“No, it’s, um,” he starts, then stops. Closes his eyes for a moment to steady himself, then says it. “I’ve been talking to the player welfare advisor at Sarries, and he doesn’t think it’s a good idea for me to go. I’m not sure either way yet, but I’ve been asking people for their opinions.”

“Why?” It’s clearly a new concept to her, even if she’s not as traditional as Andy. “Everything’s alright with you and Georgie, isn’t it? Oh, Owen, are you ill?”

He knows that she means physically, but it’s as much help as he’s going to get.

“Kind of. Mick – that’s the welfare guy – thinks I have depression.” It’s getting easier to say it every time, although placing doubt on the diagnosis by attributing it to Mick is still a bit of a copout.

He sneaks a look at his mum. Her mouth is hanging open, eyes wide. “ _Owen_. Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I didn’t notice.”

“It’s okay,” he says awkwardly. “I didn’t either, for a long while. I’ve just started taking antidepressants, and I’m doing better already, but we’re still not completely sure that touring is the right thing to do at the moment.”

“Oh, Owen,” she says again, breaking from her stupor to rush over and hug him. “My baby. Of course you shouldn’t go if you’re not ready. Health is so much more important than a few poxy rugby matches – just don’t tell your father I said that.”

He huffs out a laugh. Maybe it’s going to be okay. “So you won’t be angry if I stay here instead?”

She kisses the top of his head. “No, love. I could never be angry with you. You should look after yourself first, and then come back to rugby when you’re ready. England’s only an extra, anyway – you can finish the season with Sarries and work on your mental health, and then go back for the autumn Tests if you want.”

“You don’t think they’ll drop me?” He holds onto her wrist, desperate for reassurance. He’s not the baby of the family – hasn’t been for years – but he still wants his mum to tell him that everything’s going to be okay.

“I’ll have a stern word with your father if they do,” she says firmly. “But no – you can say it’s for personal reasons, or have Mick tell them something more specific, and they’ll understand. Stuart’s a decent bloke, not like some.”

“Thanks, mum,” he says softly, kissing her cheek. “I just – didn’t know if it was a stupid idea or not. I’ve been getting on fine in camp anyway, or I thought I was.”

“How long?” she asks.

He squeezes his eyes shut before he answers, not wanting to see the inevitable pity or shock on her face. “Most of 2013. The club made me go to Mick after the concussion, and I’ve been doing better since then.”

“Fuck,” she swears, and it startles him. His mum isn’t one for cursing in front of her children. “Darling, I know you and your dad don’t always see eye to eye on some topics, but you can always talk to me. Whatever it is – I’m a judgement-free zone, I promise.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue in an instant, a confession of _something something 1% something gay something something_ , but he manages to keep hold of it before it spills out, before he can take it back into the security of his own head.

“Yes, mum,” he says instead. “I’m sorry.”

She tsks. “Don’t be sorry, love. It’s not your fault – it’s nobody’s fault. I’d just like to know that you’re okay. I’m your mother; it’s only natural.”

“Yes, mum,” he repeats. They sit in silence, each digesting the conversation, until the washing machine beeps. “I’ll get that,” he says, scrambling to his feet. He needs some fresh air to clear his head.

*

It’s only a couple of days later that he gets a call from Stuart. He’s deep in the zone, preparing for the European final, and somehow all thoughts of tour had slipped his mind.

(He had given Mick the go-ahead to contact the England guys to explain why he’s not available, so it’s not entirely unexpected, but he wasn’t expecting such a quick response.)

“Are you free to talk, Owen?” Stuart asks, in lieu of a greeting.

“Yep,” he says, because there’s no way he’s asking the head coach to call him back. Andy would have his head. He had been planning on driving straight home after training, but now it looks like he’s going to be sitting in his car for a little while longer.

“Good, good,” Stuart says. “Now, I don’t want to beat about the bush – the Saracens medical team have got in touch to say that you won’t be going on tour with us. They say it’s a private matter, personal reasons, that sort of thing.”

Owen’s chest tightens. If Stuart’s going to have a go at him for this – shit, he’s fucked.

“I’m not going to ask you to disclose anything,” Stuart continues, and Owen relaxes slightly, “but I was just wondering if you know how long you will be unavailable for? You’re an asset to the team, and we don’t want to lose you from our long-term plans.”

“I – the situation should have improved by the start of next season,” Owen says shakily. He’s not going to be ditched, if all goes well. Thank _God_.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” Stuart says. “Right. I don’t want to keep you any longer, so good luck for Saturday and I hope to see you back in camp soon.”

“Thank you,” he whispers. He feels like he should keep going, but Stuart’s already hung up.

Owen thunks his head back against the headrest. He’s so thankful that Stuart’s one of the good guys in rugby, not one of the old guard who would throw him out on his ear for even daring to have an unexplained medical issue. Instead, it seems like he’s still part of the group building towards the World Cup next year.

A few new flyhalves might work their way into the squad in his absence, though he’s confident he can dispatch of them soon enough. He’s the best England have got at the moment, scary as that sometimes sounds. Cips and Freddie are decent players, but nothing compared to him.

He texts Georgie that he’s coming home, and then slides his phone into his pocket. He’s suddenly got a free summer ahead of him, less than two weeks away. His girlfriend’s going to be at work most of the time, but Jamie’s surely going to be around – especially with Elliot away on tour. The two of them can mope together and cheer each other up together, and maybe it won’t be that bad.

*

It’s a bumpier ride into the offseason than Owen would have liked, a 23-6 loss to Toulon in Cardiff and a 20-24 loss to Northampton at Twickenham. The latter match goes to extra time, and for the first time he’s properly glad that he’s not going to be on a plane to New Zealand in two days’ time.

He’s been through the wringer, mentally as well as physically, and Jamie is just as quiet and miserable as him in the locker room after, despite only having played four minutes at the very end of the game. Still, they pick themselves and they keep pushing forwards, collectively and as individuals. It’s not quite a case of sharks having to remain in perpetual motion lest they stop moving and die, but it’s something close.

Owen spends most of Sunday stretching his cramped leg and cuddling in front of the TV with Georgie. It’s Elliot’s England debut, even if it’s not a capped match, and he wouldn’t miss it for anything.

(He’d briefly considered inviting Jamie round to watch it with them, but eventually concluded that he’d prefer to see his boyfriend’s first game in private. He hasn’t got anything to compare it to in his own life, obviously, but he’d used his imagination.)

Elliot plays pretty well in the 29-39 loss, kicking one penalty and missing one conversion. He’s got a good boot on him, Owen has to admit, which almost makes up for the try he lets in at the end. It’s not really his fault either – the rest of the back three are so out of position that he’d have to run like Usain Bolt to catch Gear.

He texts Elliot a well done message at full time, and Jamie gets a _your boy did good ;)_. A few minutes later, after the typing bubble has been and gone about seven times, Jamie sends back _yeah_. Owen feels like he’s missing something.

Still, the strange edge to Jamie’s text doesn’t appear when Owen goes round to Jamie’s house in the week. It’s been long enough since the final that the bruise on his shoulder has faded, although he can’t stop mulling over what might have been, especially with all the free time he suddenly has.

“We’re going to have to get you out of the house a bit, mate,” Jamie says, after their third day in a row of lying on adjacent sofas and playing FIFA. “You’re not used to spare time in summer – we could go to the beach!”

Owen’s initial reaction is one of scepticism. The beach? Surely they should be training, or at least doing something properly recovery-related.

His inner Mick – a worrying development, frankly – comes to the front of his thoughts. _You need to rest, or you’ll exhaust yourself. Relaxing and having fun is important too._

“Okay,” he says diplomatically. “When?”

Jamie sits up, stares at him. “Hang on, really? Shit, those drugs must be doing you good.” Owen tries not to feel too hurt by that. “Alright, how about Friday? I’ll text Kruiser, see if he’s free, and any of the other boys.”

“Sounds good.” God, it’s been way too long since he did something like this, spontaneous and not with a specific goal in mind. He’s missed just hanging out with the lads – both the Sarries ones and the little group of him, Jamie, Elliot, and George.

Owen literally can’t remember the last time the four of them spent time together, all in the same room. He adds it to his mental list of things to do, although he might run it past Jamie first. He’s been the one actually talking to those guys for the past year, not him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to those of you celebrating, and happy Friday to everyone else! I hope you enjoy this update, and see you on Sunday :)
> 
> [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


	34. Chapter 34

In the end, the beach trip is comprised of Owen, Jamie, and Kruiser. Kruiser’s driving, Owen in the passenger seat on account of his longer legs, and Jamie’s relegated to the back with much grumbling.

They set off at half nine in the morning, picnic blanket and sun cream packed and nothing much else. Jamie, the orchestrator of this escapade, has assured them that there will be plenty of opportunities to buy food when they get there at lunchtime.

It’s a peacefully quiet car on the drive down, Kruiser’s choice of radio station burbling softly in the background. Owen’s tempted to go to sleep – the car has a satnav so there’s no need for his navigational assistance, and the meds have genuinely been making him a little drowsy. It’s warm, the sun is shining, and he trusts these lads. He might as well have a nap for a few hours.

He’s almost all the way to being asleep when Jamie’s phone rings. “Sorry, guys,” Jamie says, rooting around in his pockets to find it. “It’s probably my mum.”

His tone of voice when he answers the call makes it clear that it’s not his mum.

“Mate, it’s ten at night there. What’s up?” He sounds worried, and Owen stays facing forward to give him some privacy, however much he wants to know who’s on the other end of the call.

Jamie’s quiet for a minute, then, “Hang on, slow down. He said what to you?”

With a sinking feeling, Owen realises who it must be. Eleven hours’ time difference would locate the caller in New Zealand. The England squad are in New Zealand, and who’s going to be calling Jamie late in the evening on that tour? It’s got to be Elliot.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Jamie murmurs, lowering his voice. “You’re okay. Have you told anyone there?”

Silence again, for an uncomfortable moment. Jamie has to know that he and Kruiser are eavesdropping, despite their best efforts to the contrary. It’s just too quiet in the car to ignore the one-sided conversation.

“Alright. That’s a good idea. Look, try and sleep, if you can.” A pause. “Yeah, I know, but it will help. And – we’re not like that anymore, and I get it, but call me if you need. Anytime, I promise.” More silence. “Okay, El. Sleep tight. We’ll be watching.”

The call ends, and Jamie sighs. Owen wants to ask, is itching to know, but he keeps his mouth shut. Jamie will tell them if he wants to.

In the event, he only has to wait five minutes before Jamie leans forward between them and starts talking. “He’s an absolute arsehole, you know,” he says, like it’s not a complete non sequitur.

“Who?” Kruiser asks, though Owen has a bad feeling that he knows already.

“Billy ‘holier than thou’ Vunipola,” Jamie spits out. “God, he’s such a prick. Told Elliot he only got picked because he was sucking off Stuart and the rest of the coaches.”

“Fucking hell,” Kruiser says, shaking his head. “I thought he’d got over all that stuff.”

“What did Elliot do?” Owen asks. He can’t imagine being in that situation in an England setting; he’d probably try and carry on, then end up crying and embarrassing himself even more.

“Just legged it, apparently,” Jamie says, dropping his head onto the central console. “Chris heard – he was just round the corner – but he’s not sure if he said anything to Billy. Twats, the lot of them.”

“That’s out of order,” Kruiser says, before trying to change gear without hitting Jamie in the head. “Still – he’s not playing tomorrow, is he?”

“Shouldn’t make a difference,” Jamie grumbles. “Billy wouldn’t care if El was starting in the World Cup final, he’d still make a shitty comment.”

Owen and Kruiser exchange looks. He doesn’t know what to say, so he stays quiet. Jamie’s clearly pissed off, and there’s nothing he can do to make the situation better. Message Andy, maybe, to let him know what happened – but Andy would agree with Billy, so it wouldn’t help much.

They get to the beach a little while later. Jamie volunteers to stay with the picnic blanket and their valuables while the other two go for a swim, so Owen takes off his shirt and walks with Kruiser down to the edge of the water.

(It’s a warm enough day that he wouldn’t get away with swimming with a shirt on. He’s not 100% comfortable with it, now he’s eating more, but he’ll be submerged from the shoulders down soon.)

He splashes into the sea, taking the plunge and shoving his head under the water. It’s a shock to the system, but in a good way. The sun is shining, the beach is almost empty, seagulls and rippling water are the main sounds – it’s calming.

Owen starts swimming, pushing away from the shore with stroke after stroke. He’s vaguely aware of Kruiser next to him, the only break in the swaying water. He swims out for a hundred strokes, then treads water while his friend catches up.

“Do you think Jamie’s alright?” Kruiser asks breathlessly when he reaches him. “Like, Elliot’s his best mate. He must be raging.”

 _They’re a bit more than mates,_ Owen doesn’t say. “There’s nothing much he can do,” he says, rising and falling with the passage of a wave. “Billy’s more established with England than Elliot for starters – they won’t take any serious action in case it screws with the team.”

Kruiser nods. “That’s fair. I mean, it’s not fair, but it’s understandable.”

Owen doesn’t know what he would have done if he’d been in New Zealand, overhearing that conversation. He wants to do his best by the team, always, but Elliot’s his friend, and that has to count for something. Subtly confronting Billy doesn’t work, their little group has learned by now. He wouldn’t be able to tackle it directly, in case Billy decided to complain to the coaches or word got around and it got back to Andy.

In short – he’s almost relieved to be at home rather than on tour. At least here, his lack of action, however cowardly, can be blamed on the distance, time differences, and so on. It’s not good, but what else is he supposed to do?

Mick’s been going on to him about not trying to do everything himself, and letting other people take responsibility sometimes. Setting boundaries is useful, apparently. Still, he’s not sure if this qualifies as setting a boundary to protect his own mental health, or just abdicating responsibility entirely.

Some spray hits his face, and he blinks the salt from his eyes. “I’m going to head back, Faz,” Kruiser says, already ten metres away. “My arms are killing me.”

Now he’s said that, Owen notices the ache in his own muscles, previously insulated from his brain by his muddled thoughts. It’s not like he can wait until his session with Mick to talk through whether to take action or not – it’ll be too late by then. Shaking his head to clear the last drips from his face, he swims after Kruiser. They’ve been in the water for a while, so it must be nearly lunchtime.

Jamie lobs a towel at him as soon as he emerges, shivering, from the water. He catches it, takes the opportunity to dry his hair and hide his torso for a few more seconds.

“Nice swim?” Jamie asks, flopping back onto his side on the picnic blanket.

“Yeah, it was good,” Owen says. Honestly, give Jamie a bunch of grapes and he’d look like a Roman emperor. “I mean, once Kruiser stopped splashing me…”

“Hey!” the man in question objects. “I kept shouting, but you were in your own little world.” Owen shrugs. It wasn’t like Kruiser was asking anything massively important, anyway. “I’m going to the shop – you boys want anything getting?”

Jamie asks for a sandwich and Owen asks for the same, tacking on an ice cream to his order at the last second. It’s the offseason – who’s going to find out, or care?

Kruiser lumbers off, and Owen’s rolling over to face Jamie as soon as he’s out of earshot. “Do you think I should text Elliot to see if he’s okay?” he asks. “Like, I don’t want to bring it up again if it’s going to make things worse, but I don’t want him to think I don’t care.”

Jamie shields his eyes from the sun. “First of all, it might be a bit late now – he should be asleep, if that fucker hasn’t messed him up too much. Secondly, it’s your call. I can’t tell you what to do or not, though I think he’d appreciate it.”

“Well, he’s your guy. I didn’t want to go in all guns blazing if you thought it was a stupid idea.”

“Not my guy,” Jamie says flatly.

“But – he’s your boyf-” Owen starts, confused.

“Not now, mate,” Jamie says, in the same dull tone. “We can talk about it later.”

Owen twists round to check, but Kruiser’s nowhere to be seen. Either Jamie’s being unusually careful, or something’s up. He shakes his head. _Stupid idea, really. They’ve been going strong since before I met Jamie. Nothing wrong there._

Silence falls between them, their little bubble wrapped in sunlight and waves lapping at the sand and too much heat for any self-respecting British summer day. Kruiser’s back in minutes, though, shattering the reflective quiet.

“So, like, you’re going to be okay for preseason, Faz?” he asks, handing over the sandwiches. “Unusual seeing you around during the summer, that’s all.”

“Yeah,” Owen says. Ham and cheese – decent protein content, if a little fatty. “Should be better by then.”

“And – if you don’t mind me asking – what is the problem?” Kruiser asks. He sounds curious, not gossipy, but Owen’s still uncomfortable.

“Just, some, uh…” He turns to Jamie, wide-eyed, trying to project _help me out here!!_ as calmly as he can.

“Potential holdover from the concussion,” Jamie picks up smoothly. “The docs weren’t totally convinced it would be safe to keep him playing, especially internationally, without a longer break, so we get the joy of his company for once.”

Owen smiles gratefully at Jamie, panic averted. God, he should get him a present for that answer. “It’s nothing dangerous, don’t worry,” he reassures Kruiser, who’s looking concerned. “They just thought it was the best decision for my long-term health.”

The best part is, he and Jamie aren’t technically lying. The talking to Mick _was_ a consequence of his concussion, and the diagnosis and antidepressants followed on from that too. Taking a full offseason to recover should help his longevity – not in that way, he’s never been that low, just numb – so it’s a neat coverup all round.

“Should you have been playing the games in between?” Kruiser asks, unscrewing the lid of his water bottle and taking a sip. “If it’s bad enough now to skip tour, then wouldn’t you have made it worse by finishing off the season?”

Owen shrugs. “I’m not an expert, mate, I’m just repeating what they told me. And, really, spending some time at home isn’t that bad a trade-off.” Jamie’s smiling next to him, and Owen’s glad. He really had fucked up the people he cared about with his depression, so it’s a relief to see his newfound positivity having a good effect on them too.

Kruiser lets the subject drop after that, apparently satisfied. They finish off their lunch and take the opportunity for some more sunbathing. Owen hesitates to remove his shirt, yet again, but the beach is deserted and the other two have their eyes shut. He can do this; he can get over this hurdle.

He opts to lie on his front to start with. At least then his loss of abs won’t be so obvious – he’s watched his back muscles be steadily submerged over the last few months, but his abs were his prized possession, almost like a reward for all the deprivation.

(Mick’s not a fan of that line of reasoning, and neither was Georgie once he’d worked up the courage to talk to her about it. Still, it’s his body, and he’s the one that has to see his stomach definition melt away in the mirror each morning.)

Owen pushes the thoughts away. It’s a lovely sunny day, he’s at the beach with two of his mates – things could be so much worse. He’s worrying about the state of his abs, rather than a game against New Zealand. He could be on the other side of the world, but he’s not. He’s in England, and that’s fine for now.

Still – some people aren’t so lucky. (What planet is he on, thinking that being on an international tour is unlucky? Fuck, those drugs have messed up his brain.)

Elliot, for one.

He rolls over, wincing slightly as the blanket comes into contact with the reddening skin on his back, and grabs his phone.

_Hey mate – not sure if you wanted me to know but I was in the car with Jamie earlier when you called. I’m so sorry, it must have been awful. Did you tell anyone in the end? Sending a virtual hug._

He mulls it over for a minute, then decides to add a heart. Who’s going to care? Andy, maybe, but they haven’t spoken since Owen withdrew from tour, so he’s probably already been disowned. And Jamie won’t mind; he knows Owen’s too confused by his sexuality to be making moves on his boyfriend.

The other two lads are either asleep or close to it, so he feels safe enough to stay on his back for the time being. Lying down isn’t the worst position, stomach-wise, anyway – that’s standing up, when everything comes front and centre, and he’d already done that earlier today. He can cope with a bit more sunbathing.

Elliot hasn’t replied by the time they’re packing up to leave, although it’s not surprising – he’d sent the message at about three in the morning for him. Nevertheless, he tries to send good vibes across the intervening eleven thousand miles. Dealing with Billy on a day to day basis is hard enough, let alone with no close friends around as backup.

“Do either of you want to come round to mine to watch the match?” Owen asks, once they’re on the motorway back to St Albans. It’s at half eight the next morning, so he won’t be offended if they say no.

“I’ve already said I’ll go to Jackson’s,” Kruiser apologises, and Jamie makes a negative-sounding grunt. Ah well – he tried, and it’s a start. Georgie will be around to watch it with him, even though she’ll probably sleep through most of the first half.

They talk on and off for most of the drive back, the lulls in the conversation just as comfortable as the laughing, tumbling rush of words as they all try to argue their own points at once. Jamie falls asleep just before they reach the M25, his gentle snoring muffling the radio.

“You are alright, though?” Kruiser asks quietly, looking over at Owen. “I know concussion is a bitch, but you seemed a bit off last season as well. I didn’t want to say anything, in case you were hiding an injury or something and you didn’t want people to know, but I was a bit worried.”

“I’m doing better now,” Owen promises. He can be honest about that, if nothing else.

“And it’s not – sorry for bringing it up; I know you don’t like talking about it – anything to do with your dad, is it? I just kept remembering how you were when you had to go home for Christmas, back when we were both playing for Bedford, and I thought something might have happened with him.”

Owen smiles in spite of himself. Cursed with too many observant friends, even if they wouldn’t say anything to him. “No, mate – and don’t worry about it. It’s been a lot easier with him since I moved out. I barely have to see him anymore, and he’s off with England most of the time anyway.”

“That’s good,” Kruiser nods, hands relaxing on the steering wheel. “I asked Jamie about it, months ago, and he said it was your thing to talk about or not, so I just kind of left it. You seemed like you had enough on your plate.”

“Hey, I appreciate the thought,” Owen says. “I probably would have shut you down back then, but I am genuinely doing better now, all across the board.”

“Happy for you, mate,” his friend says thickly, and Jamie’s snuffling fills the car again.

Kruiser drops him and Jamie off at the midpoint of their two houses, driving away with a smile and a wave.

“See you next week?” Owen asks, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking out over the road. Jamie was being funny about meeting up earlier, so he doesn’t want to push too much.

“Yeah, I guess,” Jamie says. “Not much else to do. I hope you and Georgie have a nice weekend.”

“I hope you and Elliot get a chance to talk,” he offers in response, though Jamie’s shrug makes him think he’s mis-stepped, yet again.

“We’ll see,” Jamie murmurs, before visibly perking up. “I had fun today, mate. Thanks for coming with us.”

Owen goes in for a hug, ignoring the initial stiffness of Jamie’s body. “I enjoyed it. Haven’t had a proper summer day in years.”

“Alright, hotshot,” Jamie teases, poking him in the side. “See you soon.”

He leaves with a wave. Owen watches him go. There’s something up with Jamie, though he can’t quite pinpoint what. Probably something to do with Elliot, or Billy’s continuing aresholeness, or both.

Still, he can sympathise with everyone who’s told him that they’d noticed something was up with him, but weren’t confident enough to ask what was wrong. Owen’s sure that Jamie’s struggling with something. He can’t ask about it, though, in case he makes it worse.

He takes out his phone, makes a note of the feeling in order to ask Mick about it.

_good day!! (don’t know why surprised about it – should I be?)_

_intervening with Elliot, not sure but did it anyway_

_Jamie’s thing? should ask him. nervous though – he didn’t ask me (respecting privacy) so don’t know if I should ask him_

He puts the phone away and sets off walking home. Setting aside Jamie and Elliot’s issues, it’s been a good day. Whether it was the antidepressants, the sunshine, or the company that did it, he’s happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you thought about this, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).
> 
> Also, seen as this is the last update for this calendar year - I hope the last few days of the year treat you kindly, and thank you all for reading and leaving kudos and commenting! It’s one of the things that’s made this year bearable for me, so thank you <3


	35. Chapter 35

The game on Saturday morning is surprisingly difficult for him to watch. Freddie’s in the number ten shirt which he’s begun to think of as his own, with Danny Cipriani on the bench ready to take over. Even from the kick-off, when he sees Freddie chatting with Nigel Owens, there’s a twinge of something close to jealousy in his stomach.

He’s happier here than he would be there, he knows, objectively speaking, but it’s three possible matches against the All Blacks that he’s passed up on. How many more goes will he get to test himself against the Kiwis?

Owen’s on edge until halftime, perched on the sofa and clenching and unclenching his fists. It’s easier in a way that Freddie’s nailed all his kicks, leaving the score at 9-9. He can’t feel guilty about letting the team down when his replacement is doing a perfectly good job. Stuart’s assured him already of his future with England, so he shouldn’t be worried about the flyhalf situation going forward.

(Key word – shouldn’t. Georgie walks in, rumpled with sleep, to see him chewing on his fingernails as the pundits dissect each side’s performance. She pries his hands away from his mouth and drops a quick kiss on his forehead, in a movement too routine to let him feel cared for rather than babied.)

By some miracle, he makes it through his halftime angst, Georgie’s steadying presence against his side as she eats breakfast now stopping him from twitching too much. Hansen sends on five new players at the sixty-minute mark, and Owen wants to shout at the TV for England to match them. Playing the front row for more than an hour – it’s a more stupid decision with every minute, every scrum that passes.

England finally make some changes after seventy minutes, swapping Freddie for Cips. He gets another penalty in the seventy-third minute, tying the scores at 15-15. Owen’s nails have virtually disappeared, and he’s more nervous watching than he would be on the pitch. At least then he could be doing something to help.

England push and push and defend their try line, managing to hold up Vito and draw a five-metre scrum. It’s not ideal, but at least they haven’t conceded a try.

Owen’s cursing himself mere moments later as Smith goes over in the corner, Joe’s covering tackle arriving too late. Fuck’s sake. They were doing well up until then, and now they’re five points down. Cruden misses the conversion, though, not that it means anything. England aren’t going to be able to do anything in two minutes against a fired-up New Zealand team and their home crowd.

The final whistle blows and he shudders. If nothing else, he’s lucky to be avoiding the bollocking that the lads are about to get.

“Would you like to go for a nice walk in a few minutes?” Georgie asks, reaching over to turn the TV off. “It’ll take your mind off it.”

He nods reluctantly. Stewing in a loss he played no part in isn’t helpful to anyone, especially given that he’s meant to be taking this time off from rugby to become more mentally healthy. He’s had his rugby fix for the day – although Wigan are meant to be playing Castleford in the Challenge Cup after lunch…

*

Mick’s happy to see him on Wednesday, and their weekly session continuing through the offseason has given Owen a structure that he didn’t think he would be so reliant on. With a notes app full of comments from the last week, he knocks on the door of the welfare room and goes inside.

“Morning, Owen,” Mick says, shaking his hand. “How’s it going?”

“Decent, yeah. Went to the beach on Friday, which was good, but some stuff did come up.”

“I trust you made notes on it?” Mick asks with a wry grin.

Apparently it’s a very rugby player thing, to be so keen on doing ‘homework’ for the sessions. Owen had started off with a physical diary dedicated to writing down his feelings at any given moment, but Mick had soon nipped that in the bud. It’s supposed to be something to add to if required, not an extra task to complete, he’d explained, and Owen’s inclined to believe him.

“Yep.” He gets out his phone and opens up the right note.

“Run me through it, then,” Mick instructs, sitting back in his chair.

Owen takes a moment to collect his thoughts before starting to explain. “So, me and Jamie and Kruiser went to the beach, and it was all good – more relaxing than I thought it was going to be. The only thing was that Jamie got a call from Elliot, saying that Billy had been a dick to him again, about – gay stuff, I suppose, is the nice way of putting it.

“Jamie was obviously massively fucked off about all of it, and I wasn’t sure if I should message Elliot as well, just to see if he was okay. Jinx said it was my decision, he couldn’t tell me what to do, that kind of thing. I did do it in the end; I just wasn’t sure if that was the right idea.”

He stops, looks at Mick expectantly. He usually has an observation to make by now, directing the course of their conversation and the session as a whole. “There’s something else, isn’t there?” Mick asks.

 _Bloody mind reader_ , Owen thinks fondly, and keeps going. “Yeah. He was just a bit off all day. Like, when I tried to ask him about Elliot then, and when we got back, he wouldn’t give me a straight answer. I want to ask what’s going on, but then I don’t know if that would help or not. It’s the same thing a few of the guys have been mentioning to me recently – they wanted to see if I was okay, but they didn’t say anything because they thought it might make it worse, or it wasn’t their place.”

Mick nods slowly. “That’s a lot to work through. Is there anything else?”

Owen looks at the last line of his notes: _England match – jealous guilty angry stressed – relieved?_ Maybe that’s something for another time, if they’ve already got the rest of the stuff to go through. “Just about the England game at the weekend. It’s okay, though. We can do that next week.”

“If that’s going to be a recurring issue throughout the series, I’d rather we dealt with it now, but it’s your call,” Mick says. He rests his chin on his steepled fingers and waits for Owen’s response.

He bites his lip. Mick’s point makes sense – when does he not? – but it feels selfish to focus on himself when Jamie’s clearly in a funk.

“Elliot and Jamie, for now,” he decides. “I can work through some of the England stuff by myself.”

“Okay. Would you mind talking me through how the whole situation with Elliot made you feel? When he first called, Jamie’s reaction, your discussion with Jamie – the whole thing,” Mick asks.

Owen nods. He tells Mick about the progression of the day in as much detail as he can manage. Mick does his usual thing of letting Owen ramble on, then cutting in with an insightful question that makes his waffling seem deep and introspective.

The session follows the normal pattern for a while, then Mick says something which makes Owen’s train of thought screech to a halt. “How much of your reaction to this do you think was informed by your own sexuality and thoughts surrounding it? You keep mentioning Andy – I don’t think Elliot would think he was particularly relevant to the situation, and yet you seem quite focused on him.”

Owen blinks at him. Unruffled as ever, Mick holds his gaze. It’s his code for _think about it. We’ve got time._

Okay, then. Time for a deep dive.

He’s bringing up Andy because he knows first-hand what his reaction to anything non-straight is. He wants to protect Elliot from going to the wrong coach if he decides to make a complaint – he wants to stop the same thing happening to Elliot as happened to him.

The stupid fucking wrestling incident – he could spend a whole session on that alone.

Owen’s fine with being associated with someone who Andy might know is not straight. He’s better at standing up for other people than for himself, after all. It’s just – how is he supposed to think about that comfortably small 1% (which could turn out to be a lot more than that) when he knows what’s lurking in the future if he dares to act on it?

Andy’s not his dad anymore, at least from his side, hasn’t been for years. From the outside, though – from any perspective other than his own – it might look like he’s doing this deliberately to spite him. He’s pretty sure that’s how Andy’s going to take it, if he can ever get past this block in his mind to consider his sexuality properly.

_“Pull the other one, Owen. I wasn’t born yesterday. You – get out. I don’t want you near my son, or under my roof. It’s unnatural.”_

Yeah. Thanks for that one, Andy.

“Owen?” Mick asks softly, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Did anything come up that you want to talk about?”

“I suppose so.” He forces himself to relax, drops his shoulders and wriggles his feet around to release the tension.

He takes a breath, then another, and another, and another. Mick’s watching him, waiting for an answer. Where is he even meant to start? They’ve talked around this topic before, but never really focused on it.

“I think you’re right,” he gets out, after another ten breaths. “I want to look out for Elliot so Andy doesn’t do to him what he did to me. I know he’s more confident in himself and all that, but nobody should have to be told that kind of thing, especially when Billy’s already done it.”

“Do you want to discuss Andy’s behaviour more?” Mick asks delicately. No judgement, just a quiet interest.

“There was this one time,” he starts, then has to stop. He’s choking up just thinking about it, the amount of damage those few minutes did to him. “Okay, no. I can’t talk about that. The wrestling thing, I told you about it a while ago?” Mick nods, so he keeps going. “It was horrible and completely unnecessary and we weren’t even doing anything. He just assumed, and he was wrong. It fucked me up so much.”

“So – and correct me if I’m wrong – you would have considered your sexuality, the 1% as you call it, more actively if that hadn’t happened, or if he had been more supportive?”

“Definitely,” Owen says, surprising himself with just how obvious it seems to him now. “Like, three of my closest mates like guys, and I’ve known that for years, so if Andy hadn’t got in the way, I might have talked to them a bit more about it. Jamie told Elliot to stop making straight jokes about me a while back, so they’d be supportive if I asked.”

Mick smiles. “That’s good. I’m glad you have some people you can trust with this. I don’t want you to rush into anything, but – Andy’s not around now, won’t be for another few weeks. It might be a good opportunity to have a chat with Jamie or George, maybe.”

Owen nods. “Yeah, I guess. I haven’t talked to George in a while, what with the thing-” he gestures to his head, and Mick looks like he understands- “but Jamie would be a safe option.”

“That sounds like a really good idea, Owen,” Mick says. He actually looks happy for once, and Owen’s pleased he could do that for him – for both of them. “Now, we’re at the end of our time for today, but feel free to email me if you’d like another appointment before next week. It’s a strange time for you, and my schedule is a lot emptier than usual.”

Owen leans forward to shake his hand. “Thanks. I don’t know yet, but I’ll think about it.”

“Alright. Have a good week, Owen, and good luck.”

He leaves the room feeling lighter for the first time in a while. Sessions with Mick have been leaving him drained in the past couple of weeks, but this can definitely be classed as a positive meeting. The suggestion of talking to Jamie, too – that will be interesting, to put it mildly, though he trusts Jamie not to be a twat.

(More than he can say for some people, but he’s naming no names.)

*

He doesn’t manage to sort out a time to talk with Jamie before the weekend, so he has another agonising England match to sit through as well as an excess of gay thoughts rattling around his head. England are 6-10 ahead at the break, but the All Blacks come roaring back at them to take the win by one sodding point.

Billy playing the last twenty-five minutes makes him grind his teeth with rage (Elliot had said he was fine, but Jamie doesn’t seem convinced), and the sight of Nigel Owens on the touchline brings back all the sexuality nerves in full force.

Georgie’s not around – her sister’s birthday, something like that, so she’s at home in Devon for the weekend – so he has nothing to distract him. He can only deal with watching idiotic analysis of the match for so long before he has to take a break.

 _You free for a chat?_ he sends Jamie. He might as well bite the bullet, strike while the iron is hot – whatever the appropriate metaphor is? Metaphor? Idiom? He’s out of his depth here, in more ways than one.

 _Sure_ , Jamie replies before Owen has time to regret his boldness. _My place or yours?_

 _There’s a nice park near me we could go to_ , he suggests. _Not much of a walk._

_Sounds good – see you in twenty._

Owen sits back on the sofa and exhales. He can’t back out now – he can’t make up believable excuses fast enough. Sexuality chats, here he comes.

A car door slams outside about two minutes later, although a quick glance at the clock confirms that it has actually been the full twenty minutes. Owen hauls himself to his feet and goes to the door, yanking his shoes on as he goes.

He opens the front door before Jamie has a chance to knock. “Hey, mate,” he says, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Good to see you.”

“Same to you,” Jamie replies, though a quiver runs through his voice which betrays his easy smile. “Everything okay?”

“How about we go to the park?” Owen suggests instead of answering the question. He knows it’ll make Jamie worried, as if he isn’t already, but he can’t bring himself to say the words. He could probably get the point across in a roundabout way, but isn’t the point of this being more honest with himself?

Jamie nods, falling into step with him. The height difference between them always manages to surprise Owen, somehow, like Jamie should be taller by the sheer amount of emotional intelligence he possesses. On the other hand, he does have a massive head.

The thought sustains him for the rest of the walk. It’s further than he’d expected, although maybe that’s because he had imagined the time it took to get there from the Harpenden house instead of from his own home.

They go through the gate into the park, and Owen almost feels himself relax as he steps onto the grass. It’s been a couple of years since he’s been here, since the days of kicking practice and idle conversations with George and Leo, but the memories remain.

He leads Jamie over to the big row of trees at the far side of the playing fields, where he and George ate the _congrats on making U18s_ cake. A hedge has been planted between the trees and the fence, but that’s practically the only difference.

“Okay, mate,” Jamie says, puffing to catch up with him, “you’ve dragged me across half of Hertfordshire. What’s up?”

Owen takes a moment to arrange himself comfortably against a tree trunk, sorting through his thoughts. “I guess this might not come as a surprise to you, but – I don’t think I’m completely straight, and I want to talk about it.”

“Your 1%, yep,” Jamie says casually, like it hasn’t taken Owen hours upon hours of angst to get to the point where he’s okay with saying it. “Fire away – I’m all ears.”

“So, like, last time we half-talked about this, back in – what was it, 2012?” At Jamie’s nod, he keeps talking. “After that week when I was up in Leeds, with everyone being so certain about if I was gay or not – I don’t think I got onto this before, but I really did have some gay thoughts back then.”

He’s staring fixedly at his hands, and Jamie nudges their feet together. “Just back then, or?”

“Well, first it was Kit’s abs,” he says. “They were just like, _perfect_ , and I couldn’t stop thinking about touching them.” He’s trembling. So long keeping the words in, and now being able to let them out – it’s exhilarating.

“And once I managed to tell myself it was okay to look at guys that way, I couldn’t stop, you know?”

Jamie’s nodding, a massive grin on his face. “Mate, trust me, _I know_. It’s a good thing I was with Elliot, or I could have got into a lot of trouble. Never any of the guys on the team – they’re all fit, but a bit too laddish for me – but yeah.”

Owen smiles tentatively. “Jonny Wilkinson,” he confesses. “I don’t know when it went from hero worship to a crush because I wouldn’t let myself think about it, but he’s hot.”

“Bit old, though,” Jamie says. “Hang on – was that why you were hanging around in the Toulon locker room after the final? Wow, mate.”

He flushes, still shaking with the terrifying novelty of saying it out loud. “Not exactly… He’s such a good player, and I wanted to congratulate him on his career and everything. Being right next to him while he was shirtless was just a bonus.”

Jamie slaps him on the arm. “Owen Farrell, you sneaky devil! He’s literally Andy’s age.”

“Four years younger,” Owen gets in quickly, before Jamie can keep crowing. “And I never wanted anything to happen – I’ve got Georgie, and he’s married. It would be weird.”

“Alright, whatever,” Jamie says, pretending to be insulted. “What brought this on, though? No offence, but it’s been a while since 2012.”

“Mick suggested it,” Owen admits.

“Of course he bloody did,” Jamie says, rolling his eyes. “That man is too good at his job, I swear. I’d only been talking to him for six months and he convinced me to come out to my mum.”

“And it went well?” Owen asks. It’s the first he’s heard of it, although it must have gone well – Jane’s been at most of their matches over the years.

“Yeah, it did. He wouldn’t have put the idea in my head if it hadn’t been worth it. But why me?”

“It was either you or George, really, and I haven’t talked to George much recently because of the whole, you know, depression thing. You’re my closest mate who’s in a gay relationship, after all.”

Jamie sighs. “Yeah, about that…”

Owen freezes. Shit, his speculations had been right. What the hell could Jamie – or Elliot, he’s not assuming blame here – have done? They’d always seemed so happy.

“We broke up last year, just before the season started. We decided not to tell you; you were already so distant, and we didn’t want to make everything about us when you were obviously struggling.”

Now he feels even worse. Two of his best friends had broken up _ten months ago_ and he’s been oblivious the whole time.

“Shit, mate, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” He’s about ten months too late, but is it really his fault?

From the sagging of Jamie’s shoulders and the way he’s hanging his head, he appreciates the concern. “Mostly. I didn’t want to break up, but El wanted to try not having a long-distance relationship for once. We were together from when he was thirteen to when he was twenty-one, so I couldn’t stop him wanting an easier relationship.”

“Fucking hell. Come here.” He holds his arms out for Jamie to nestle into, the tables suddenly turned. How Jamie’s managed to carry on like nothing happened, brushing off his comments about him and Elliot, he doesn’t know. “You’re still friends, though?” he asks into Jamie’s hair.

“Yeah,” Jamie says. He sounds defeated. “I still love him – it’s not something I could switch on and off like a lightbulb, even though he’s apparently managed it. We talk most days, just not as much as before.”

“Mate,” Owen repeats. He doesn’t know what else to do. “Have you told anyone else?”

“Just George, my mum – they were the only ones to know about us, apart from you. My brother might have guessed, but he never said anything, so I don’t know. Doesn’t matter now, anyway.”

Maybe it’s not the time to bring it up, but he can’t hold it back any longer. “Did you know George had a crush on me when he was younger?” he asks. Does he want this to have been a topic of conversation on their gay group chat back in the day? He can’t decide.

Jamie looks at him with wet eyes, though he’s smiling. “ _Had?_ Nah, I’m joking. Yes, he told me. After about a month in Bradford, he called me like, ‘Fuck, Jamie, I just kissed a guy who looked just like Faz!’ He sounded proper freaked out, but I calmed him down and we had a laugh about it.”

Owen frowns, ignoring Jamie’s attempt at a northern accent. George had definitely left that part out when he was telling him the story, but he can’t be mad about it. He’s not sure if short, fit guys with brown hair are his type yet, but he’s not going to tell George if they are – too awkward by a mile.

“You going to tell him about your newfound gay confidence, then?” Jamie asks, clocking his silence. “Oh, sorry – is there a label, or are we sticking with the 1%?”

Owen screws his eyes shut. If he hears _1%_ one more time, he might scream. “Not sure. I mean, I could try bisexual? Georgie’s still a thing, even if guys are allowed now.”

Jamie nods. “That’s the weirdest sentence you’ve ever said, mate, but alright. Sounds good to me – and congratulations! I could add you to the gay chat, but then we’d have two chats with the same people in.”

“Put a gay flag in the name?” Owen suggests. “Only – not yet. I want to talk to them both separately, not do it via text.”

“Fine by me,” Jamie says, hugging him. “Proud of you, mate.”

For the first time, Owen thinks that he might be proud of himself too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!
> 
> [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com)


	36. Chapter 36

Elliot comes home a few weeks later with the rest of the squad, deflated after a 3-0 series defeat. He hadn’t played in any of the Test matches, but Owen knows all too well that it hurts just as much whether you’re on the pitch, the bench, or in the stands.

He wants to invite Elliot round, to commiserate over the tour and to set things straight about his sexuality and just what had gone on between him and Jamie, but he’s not sure where the boundary lies anymore. He doesn’t like ranking his friends, but Jamie is definitely more important to him, and he can’t risk upsetting him by mentioning it or going behind his back.

Instead, there’s an uneasy stalemate, where Owen and Elliot both suggest that they’d like to meet up on the group chat (still the not-gay one, for the time being) and Jamie doesn’t reply. George sent a quick _think I’ll be busy, sorry lads_ after the first failed attempt, and has kept quiet since.

Seen as he’s supposed to be talking to one of the two of them about his 1-or-more-%, he decides to catch up with George. They’ve exchanged a few texts here and there, mostly about the Rhinos’ progress through the Challenge Cup, but nothing much deeper than that. With his new knowledge about the reasons for his friend’s caution, Owen doesn’t blame him for it.

Leeds had lost narrowly to Wakefield a few days before, so Owen starts the conversation with a consolatory _sorry about the loss :(_ Hopefully George will get the hint that he wants to talk for longer than usual. He stares at the screen. Even with his level of reading comprehension, there’s no hint in the four words and an emoji, so he tries again. _How’s things?_

_thanks, hopefully the next few will be better_

_just happy I’m not playing for Bradford anymore lol_

Owen thinks for a second. Then it comes to him – if Bradford lose another two games, they’ll be relegated for the first time in decades. That’s got to be rough, and embarrassing. Still, not either of their problems right now. Leeds and Saracens are both too good to ever be relegation material.

 _Excited for the Challenge Cup?_ he sends. He’s not sure how to wrest the conversation round to personal stuff, but at least this is a start.

_hell yeah! you going to be watching?_

_it’s on BBC 2 – hitting the big time :P_

_Obviously, always up for some league._

_not because it’s me? making me sad Faz_

_Joking! Your guys have been killing it, especially you._

_yeah, in the five minutes I get to play after Kev goes off…_

_it’s fine honestly, just a little boring_

_How’s everything else going? Anything interesting to update me on?_

He’s admitting his faults, at least – George will have to appreciate that. He doesn’t know what to ask him about in his personal life, because literally anything could have happened since they last talked properly.

_depends what you think of as interesting_

_hang on, let me think_

_oh shit yes you’re going to love this_

_gay drama (bc is there any other kind???)_

He might be able to make an unexpected segue here, although he doesn’t know what he was expecting – even after months with no communication, George is still making things easy for him.

_you might have noticed that Danny moved to the Devils right before the season started, v last minute hush hush etc_

_WELL_

_it was actually bc Kit tried to kiss him over the break and he gay panicked all the way to Salford_

_big drama, obvs don’t tell anyone – only the younger guys on our team actually know_

_Oh, wow,_ Owen replies. _That is drama_. Last thing he’d known, both Kit and Danny were straight with girlfriends – but then again, so was he.

Also, his newly liberated gay brain points out, Kit (he of the gay awakening abs) is apparently not straight. Trying to get with someone he’s only met twice can’t be a good idea, but he’s sorely tempted.

( _You have a girlfriend_ , the straight portion of his brain yells.)

 _Are they all okay? What’s the situation?_ He doesn’t want to be in the middle of another Elliot and Jamie standoff if he can help it.

_Kit was absolutely wrecked about it for ages, but he’s better now_

_not sure about Danny, but then he’s the one that left_

A pause, then _¯\\_(_ _ツ)_/¯_

_sorry, just had to find that online_

_maybe it’s harsh, but we thought Kit needed the support more_

_No, I get that._

Fingers shaking, he types out, _Want some gay drama in exchange?_

A few deep breaths, and he hits send.

George’s reply is immediate. _of course!!! spill the tea_

Well, there’s no backing out now.

 _I think I’m_ – he deletes that. He’s had time to think. He’s sure about this.

_I’m bi._

_WHAT_

_WHAT THE FUCK_

_can I call you??_

_If you want._

The phone’s ringing instantly. “Hello?” he says cautiously. If George is angry, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. Cry to Jamie? It’s as good a coping mechanism as any.

“If I want?” George says incredulously, voice half an octave higher than usual. “ _If I want?_ Owen Farrell, you don’t bother talking to me for months on end and now it’s all coming out and rainbows? What the hell, mate?”

Owen hedges his bets that he sounds more disbelieving than pissed off. “Uh, yeah. Surprise?”

George snorts. It’s like they’d never stopped talking. “Alright, whatever. Since when? I take it Jamie knows.”

“He’s the first person I told properly – apart from the welfare guy at Sarries. Only a couple of weeks ago, I promise. You’re not that far behind.”

“You’re talking to your welfare guy?” George says quietly. “Mate, I’m actually so proud of you. Not that me and Jinx have been talking about you behind your back, but we were saying that we were going to stage an intervention if something didn’t change soon.”

“I didn’t choose to do it,” Owen corrects him. He doesn’t want praise he doesn’t deserve. “The team made me go, after the concussion. It was meant to be a one-off thing, but obviously Mick picked up on a lot of stuff that I needed to talk about. It wasn’t really my decision.”

“Still,” George says. “You kept doing it, and we both know how hard that can be. Good job, mate, seriously – and congratulations on coming out! Can we add you to the group chat yet, or is it still on the downlow?”

“I haven’t told Elliot yet, if that’s what you mean. But yeah, thanks.” He’s running out of things to say that aren’t depression-related, and he doesn’t want to dump that on George as well. The fact that he had noticed that something had changed, even from so far away – it makes his stomach feel all funny, let alone what it’s doing to his heart.

“You’re still with Georgie, right?” George asks, and there’s a strange note in his voice that makes Owen think he’s not the only one affected by the conversation.

“Yeah. I kind of screwed her over, the last year or so, just because she had to put up with a lot, but she’s still with me.” He tries not to sound too confused – they haven’t said _I love you_ yet, and it’s been three years. It’s an odd little dynamic they have going – he certainly hasn’t been fulfilling her expectations of being a prize pony to trot out to her friends and social media followers recently – but he’s fine with it if she is.

George hums. “That’s nice. I haven’t technically got a boyfriend at the moment, but it’s looking promising with this one guy.”

“Only the one?” Owen asks, teasing in an effort to lighten the conversation. George seems to have tensed up, and he’s not sure why.

“Just the one, yeah. He’s called Mark. Pretty cute – tall, blond, handsome, works out – you know.”

Owen has a sneaking suspicion that George is trying to tell him something, but he’s not cerebral enough to figure out what the clues are pointing to. “Are you still living with the guys?” he asks, clutching at straws.

“For the moment,” George replies. “I know I’m a bit old for it now, but I don’t want to commit to anything long-term in Leeds, just in case.”

“Just in case what?” Owen asks, intrigued. “Are you thinking about moving in with Mark?”

George snorts. “God no, we’ve only been on two dates. It’s more – a contract thing, let’s say. My agent thinks there’s a chance, so there’s no point finding somewhere to buy here that I’ll have to sell in a few months.”

“Any hints about where?” George is hardly likely to tell him, but he’s got to try.

He laughs, predictably. “Nah, mate. If I could tell you, I would. It’d be a good move, though – Leeds aren’t kicking me out; they just prefer Kev, and I want more game time.”

Owen calls to mind the frustration he feels when Charlie’s named to the starting fifteen for Sarries and he’s left on the bench, and he can agree with George that he’d rather go elsewhere than play second fiddle for years on end.

(How Jamie’s managing it, he doesn’t know.)

“You there, Faz?” George asks, startling him. He’d gone so far into his own head that he’d forgotten his friend at the other end of the line.

“Yep, sorry. Zoned out for a second, that’s all.”

“Alright. Look, mate, I’d better go – Zak’s promised to cook, as long as I supervise. Good to hear from you, though.”

“You too, Georgie. I think we have a preseason match during the Cup final, but I’ll try to watch it.”

“Don’t jinx it; we haven’t won the semi yet!”

“Yeah, but Warrington… You’ll be fine, honestly.”

“Well, if a Farrell tells me it’s going to be fine, then it must be, right? Got to go now, mate. Talk soon though, yeah?”

“Of course. Bye, mate.”

Owen turns his phone off when George disconnects the call. _That escalated quickly._ He had gone into the conversation intending to come out, he knows, but somehow thinking about it and doing it are always very different. Ideal vs reality, except so far he’s been lucky enough to have reality match up with what he’d hoped, albeit with some bizarre undertones.

Jamie’s weirdness, once he’d confessed to breaking up with Elliot (being broken up with, whatever, like it makes a difference), was completely understandable. George, though, twisting the conversation straight to whether he was still dating Georgie – what’s that about it?

Deep down, he thinks he knows. He’s fully aware that biphobia is a thing, so was George checking if he’s actually gay? He doesn’t want to think badly of his friend, but there are no other plausible answers.

George isn’t going to be hostile or a dick about this, he’s pretty sure, but – not to be pathetic, but why him? Elliot and Jamie are both attracted to more than one gender, and neither of them have ever mentioned George being weird about it.

Is it that he’s only just realised, instead of knowing this intrinsic fact about himself since he was in his early teens like the rest of them? Does George not consider him to be a proper, legitimate bi guy? Was that why he’d sounded so shocked to start with – not out of excitement, like he’d first thought, but out of suspicion or disbelief?

Fuck, he’d expected better from George, more than the surface-level support that he seems to have received. He doesn’t want to talk to Jamie about it – the poor guy’s got enough on his plate, however much he claims to be over Elliot – so he might just have to wait to talk to the only other bi person he knows.

Saracens are playing Wasps in the first game of the season, and it’s as good a time as any to ask.

*

Owen watches the Challenge Cup final a few weeks later on the bus back from their preseason game against Exeter. His game started at one and the final starts at three, so he only misses the first half (and it’s set up to record at home anyway).

He’s hunched over his phone screen, cursing each time the signal drops out due to a particularly large hill or a malignant cloud. Leeds were 16-4 up at the break and, although it’s a scruffy game, they don’t look in too much danger of losing their lead.

(He crosses his fingers to make sure he hasn’t jinxed it.)

The rest of the lads are chattering away around him, high on the adrenaline of a win, but he can’t pay attention to them. Owen’s living and dying with every passage of play, biting his lip so hard when Holmes goes over for Castleford that he manages to draw blood. 16-10.

There’s not enough time for the Tigers to steal Leeds’ win, surely. Not at this rate, he tells himself firmly. Leeds have fallen a bit flat since the conceded try, and they need something – someone – to rev them up again.

Soon enough – _Kevin Sinfield coming off, replaced by George Ford_ comes through his phone speakers, barely loud enough to be heard.

“Come on, Georgie,” he mutters, and Jamie twists round in the seat next to him.

“George is on?” he says, immediately focused on the league game. “Fuck, let me see.”

Owen moves his phone fractionally so Jamie can see the tiny figures on the screen as well, but not too far – the sun’s glare will obscure the action if he shifts it too much. “They’re 16-10 up,” he murmurs, like Jamie can’t read the score for himself. “Fifteen minutes. Should be okay.”

What feels like a heartbeat later, Hall muscles his way over for a Leeds try. Owen’s never met the guy, but he decides to buy him a drink if they ever meet. He’s just saved his blood pressure, for starters.

Then, George is taking the kick. Jamie’s hand is so tight on his knee as to be painful, but he doesn’t dare move. One breath. Another. He runs forward, kicks the ball – gets the points. 22-10.

Ten minutes to go.

They’re in their own little bubble, so deeply invested in the outcome of this game that nobody around them cares about. For George, his friend, Owen desperately wants this win. In an ideal world, George would be leading Wigan to victory, but life isn’t perfect that way.

Five minutes.

Castleford are pushing hard, using each and every tackle to their advantage.

Four minutes.

Leeds win the ball. George thumps it downfield. “Good boy,” Owen finds himself murmuring.

Three minutes.

Five tackles, coming up to the sixth with no ground made – Kit goes for the drop goal – the ball hangs in the air – he slots it.

23-10. Two minutes.

“Only one point for a drop goal?” Jamie says incredulously. “Mate, why did he even bother?”

Owen smiles, relaxing slightly. “More than two converted tries ahead. Come on, mate, you’re not that thick.” Jamie whacks him on the arm.

One minute. Thirty seconds, twenty seconds, ten, five – Zak kicks the ball dead. Final whistle.

Owen exhales. _Thank God._

“Good game, that,” Jamie chirps, as if they hadn’t both been on the edge of their seats for a highly uncomfortable forty minutes. “Aw, look, he’s crying.”

The camera’s focusing on Sinfield, as it probably should (five Cup finals, finally a win – good for him), but Owen thinks he can make out George and Kit and Zak in the background, hugging in a tight cluster.

Two points in the Challenge Cup final – it’s nothing to sniff at. Frankly, he wouldn’t mind it himself.

“He’s a good little player, isn’t he?” Jamie says, leaning back over and blocking Owen’s view. “You’d think he’d struggle, being so tiny, but he makes it work for him.”

“He kind of has to,” Owen says, feeling like he has to defend George’s lack of a growth spurt. “And you’re not exactly six foot yourself, mate.”

Jamie pretends to laugh, then digs out his phone. “My dad was a scrumhalf, it’s not my fault. Anyway, want to leave a voicemail for George?” He doesn’t wait for a response before he’s ringing George’s number.

Owen zones out for a few minutes, Jamie’s prattling blending into the background noise of the rest of the team’s conversations. It’s good that George helped Leeds to their win, although slightly mistimed if he is searching for a contract elsewhere.

Where would he go, anyway? Leeds are looking like they’re going to be one of the dominant teams in the Super League for the next few years. St Helens and Wigan are the teams that spring to mind, but that’s got to be a long shot. The Farrells and the O’Loughlins have Wigan locked down in the backs and the forwards, so – St Helens?

That would explain George’s desire for secrecy. It’s his childhood club, like Wigan is for Owen. If he were to be offered a contract for Wigan right now, he probably wouldn’t take it, but he’d think pretty hard about it. If he’d had an offer back when he was fourteen, he would have undoubtedly gone for league over union.

He’s not going to complain about George getting to live out his childhood dreams – even if nothing is technically confirmed yet.

“Oi, Faz, your turn,” Jamie says and shoves the phone in his face.

“Oh, right. Hey, Georgie. Great game – I only watched half, but the rest is recorded so I’m going to do that when I get home. You were really good, especially with that last kick. Uh, yeah. Congratulations, and enjoy the party.”

He hands Jamie’s phone back, and its owner already seems distracted. Owen takes advantage of it to open his own messages.

_If you get a weird voicemail from Jamie, I wasn’t ready so that’s why I sound all weird._

_You were so good I promise (though you should know that already)._

_Say congrats to Kit and Zak from me as well!_

Neither of them have received replies by the time the coach arrives at Allianz Park, so he doesn’t feel too bad.

Georgie dropped him off in the morning, and he’s left waiting for her to pick him up as the carpark slowly empties around him. They were slightly earlier than he’d said, but still. He’s getting pitying looks from everyone, and Charlie offers to give him a lift home before he can explain the situation.

She must be running late, for whatever reason. He won’t text her; that’s just passive-aggressive. Instead, he squats down to sit on the kerb by the main entrance. The match wasn’t too physical (for a rugby match) so his knees aren’t protesting too much.

His phone pings, distracting him from his worry.

_woooo thanks mate!!_

_the lads say thanks too :D_

_You’re welcome! Bet everyone’s happy._

_aww yeaah_

_not much drinking though, game next week :(_

_Ah, that sucks._

It does take him back to the last time he was out drinking after a title win and then, like she’s been summoned by his thoughts, Georgie’s pulling into the carpark. She drives round to stop right in front of him.

“Sorry, love,” she calls through the lowered window. “I lost track of time.”

“It’s okay,” he says, standing up with a crack in his knees.

_ikr!! never mind most of these lads too boring for it_

_You’ll have to bring the party then ;)_

“Who are you texting?” Georgie asks. She leans over to push his door open.

He checks her face – mostly interested, maybe a little confrontational – before replying. “Just Georgie,” he says, flashing her his phone screen quickly. “I mean – George. You know what I’m trying to say.”

“Alright,” she says, turning back to face the front. “Good match?”

“You weren’t watching?” She’s not obliged to, but it would be nice. He’d watch all her games, if she played at this level.

She laughs, though it’s forced. “No, darling. Too busy, that kind of thing.”

“Oh, okay.” Owen doesn’t want to make a fuss, but it’s hard not to. “It was decent – Strets scored twice, I missed a kick. 14-22, in the end.”

“Maybe I didn’t miss much, then,” she says. He frowns. There’s always something to be gained from watching a match, particularly when your boyfriend’s playing.

Honestly – he made the effort to watch George’s match and make him happy, while his girlfriend won’t even do that for him. One’s a cup final, one’s a preseason match, but still – does their relationship have no significance for her?

He doesn’t bother hiding his phone when George texts back.

_always buddy <3_

_Glad to hear it :)_

Georgie can get over herself, quite frankly. He’s allowed to have friends.

(A traitorous voice in his head whispers _but what if she doesn’t think that when you come out to her? Everyone’s a threat then._ )

Owen shakes his head to clear it. He hasn’t said anything to her yet – he’s probably just assuming, based on their conversation. He’s tired, she seems stressed: he’s willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you thought about this, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


	37. Chapter 37

When he realises that Sarries are facing Wasps in the first game of the season, as part of the double header at Twickenham, Owen knows he won’t get a more convenient opportunity to talk to Elliot for ages.

Jamie doesn’t appear to mind when Owen asks if he can talk to his ex-boyfriend, but then he had managed to keep it together so well for the previous year that he hadn’t even registered that they’d broken up. It’s not like they’ve had a divorce, Owen reminds himself. They’re not rowing parents, fighting for custody of the kids – they’re just two guys in their early twenties. Breakups are pretty common for people their age.

Not when the relationship had lasted almost a decade, though.

For all that Jamie’s apparently fine, Owen wants to get the other side of the story. An amicable separation, still friends, and that’s all there should be to it. He doesn’t see why Jamie would be lying to protect Elliot, given how hurt he seems to be and how badly he’s trying to hide it now, so he must be telling the truth. Owen just wants to know what happened so they can all move on.

The match is a solid Saracens victory, 34-28 in their favour. Elliot and Jamie both played the full eighty minutes, while Owen spent the last quarter on the bench, attempting not to stare at the two of them too obviously.

They seem to be treating each other the same as always, tackling hard enough to make it clear that there’s no favouritism involved, but maybe easing off a little more than they would for anyone else. It’s the same way they’ve operated when facing each other on the pitch for years, and it should reassure Owen a little.

Still, he can’t get his head on straight. He’s waiting outside the visitors’ locker room for Elliot, having shaken off his nosy teammates, and loitering surreptitiously. They’d agreed to walk into Richmond for a coffee after the game to have a chat, so he assumes that Elliot would have mentioned to his team that he’s not heading back with them.

The looks he’s getting as they filter out, hair wet and with suspicious frowns, tell him otherwise. “Alright, Faz?” Elliot says lowly, breaking off the end of the line. “Ready to go?”

“You have told them, right?” he asks, tipping his head towards the receding Wasps.

“I told Joe yesterday, but not the rest of them,” Elliot says. “Didn’t think they’d care much.”

Owen rolls his eyes. “Mate, they’re all looking at me like I’m trying to kidnap you. For my sake, at least, can you go and say something?”

Elliot huffs, hands his bag over to Owen. “Fine, whatever. Give me a sec.” He jogs off, presumably following his teammates out to their coach. Owen walks after him, careful not to get within sight. Regardless of the explanation Elliot’s chosen to give, they’re going to think he looks shifty.

If it had been Jamie lingering outside, maybe the reaction would have been different, but Owen knows his reputation. Beyond the guys he’s played with, he’s seen as a bit of a daddy’s boy by the other players, only gaining his Saracens and England places because of Andy. Add to that his lack of a media smile and an occasionally dodgy tackling technique – he’s basically the enemy, whichever angle you look from.

He’s barely finished rationalising himself out of his thoughts when Elliot reappears. “I’ve told them we’re going for coffee, and that I’ll see them on Monday. Happy now?”

Owen shrugs. At least now they know that he’s not planning to kidnap Elliot – or that he’s crafty enough not to let him know his dastardly intentions beforehand.

“Do you know if Jamie’s arm is okay?” Elliot asks, as they leave the stadium. The fans all dissipated hours ago, so it’s just them and the streetlights now. “His lineout throwing was looking a little off.”

“Not sure. How would you know, anyway?” It reminds him of that conversation he was privy to, back in – 2011, it must have been, after the semi-final but before the win. Elliot’s knowledge of scrummaging confused him then, and his understanding of the finer points of lineouts baffles him now.

“Just a me and Jamie thing, really,” Elliot says, carefully avoiding Owen’s gaze. “When we did regionals together back in the day, we’d both get there early and stay late to spend more time together. Our parents were getting a bit suspicious, so we said we were training – broadening our skillsets, that sort of thing.”

“And you actually did? Me and George used that excuse, but most of the time we were just chatting.”

“That’s what we did, at first,” Elliot says, smiling a little. “But his dad came to pick him up early once, so we had to pretend to be doing something. I panicked and made him start doing grubber kicks, that kind of thing. Obviously he was hopeless, but he seemed to enjoy it and we kept doing it after that.”

“So he taught you to scrummage by yourself?” Thank God George was a flyhalf like him – he would have died trying to do that.

“Yeah, on a scrum machine. My shoulders ached like hell afterwards, but it was fun. Good for rucking and all that stuff. Plus, we got to spend more time together.” Elliot’s voice sounds wistful, and Owen feels more sympathy towards him. It might be nostalgia for the relative simplicity of juniors, but he takes it as a sign that he’s missing how he and Jamie used to be as well.

They continue in silence save for the whacking of Elliot’s kit bag against his side. Why he hadn’t left it on the coach to go back to Coventry without him, Owen doesn’t now, but he’s not about to ask.

Eventually – the walk is longer that it had looked on his phone screen, funnily enough – they reach the coffee shop. It’s not a chain one but a small independent one that Elliot had suggested. They order, collect their drinks, and take a seat at a small table by the window. Car headlights flash past at the same speed as Owen’s thoughts.

He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to bring up the subject – Elliot mentioning Jamie earlier was a good a starting point as he’s likely to get – but asking one of his best friends about his breakup with another of his best friends is an excruciating prospect. Stupid, really, letting himself get into this situation.

“How did you find this place?” Owen asks, knowing the silence is dragging on for too long and painfully unable to break it. “It wasn’t on any of the recommendation sites I checked.”

Elliot takes a sip of his coffee with a small smile. “Mate, between me and Jamie, we could probably write you a list of all the cafes between here and my house. It’s just where we always would meet up, in a coffee shop halfway between the two of us. After a couple of years, Milton Keynes was a bit boring, so we branched out.”

“And you still do that with him?” Owen probes. If Jamie’s spent half his teenage years trekking around the country to meet up with his boyfriend, the cessation of that pastime has got to be leaving a major gap in his life.

(Maybe he’s coming off a little interrogatory, but Jamie is his priority here.)

“Not as much as we used to.” Elliot wraps his hands around his cup, half-empty. “Obviously we can both drive now, so there’s more flexibility. But, in general – we haven’t been seeing each other much recently. I know he didn’t really want to break up, so I wanted to give him space to get over me.”

“But then why did you?” Owen asks before he can stop himself. He’s heard Jamie’s interpretation of it – not wanting a long-distance relationship until one of them retires, which he can understand. “You seemed so good for each other.”

“We were,” Elliot says quietly. He’s shuffling his feet around under the table, Owen notices. “If I hadn’t fucked things up, maybe we still would be.”

Owen sits, waits. He doesn’t want to put Elliot off.

He sighs. “I suggested, probably too casually in hindsight, that one of us would move teams to get us closer to each other. I’d go to Harlequins or London Irish, something like that. The long-distance thing was really staring to grate on me, especially with all the lads taking the piss out of me for never bringing a date to events.”

He looks at Owen with pleading eyes. “I promise, whatever he told you, I didn’t mean it like that. I said I didn’t want a long-distance relationship anymore because I wanted to move in together, or at least be closer. He took it as me wanting to break up, not take another step in our relationship.”

“Shit,” Owen says, and Elliot nods morosely.

“He freaked out, and we haven’t really spoken about it since. We’ve talked, obviously, just not about that.”

“Did you try to explain?” This is worse than half the soap dramas his mum watches, honestly.

“Yeah, but he wouldn’t believe me. He kept saying he didn’t want to hear it, and – he was struggling enough with worrying about you at that point that I couldn’t make things harder for him. I agreed to give him space, and that was that.”

“Fuck, mate,” Owen says, with feeling. “That’s rough. From what I’d heard, you guys were perfectly happy, right up until you said that stuff which he misunderstood, and he’s been basically heartbroken ever since.”

Elliot sets down his empty cup with shaking hands. “Yeah, that’s what George told me. I’m not going to be angry with him for not getting over it sooner, but it makes me feel bad that I’ve managed to.”

Owen’s suddenly relieved that this conversation is happening in a deserted coffee shop, the radio drowning out their words so the server behind the counter can’t hear. “I mean, it’s been a year. I think you’re within your rights to move on.”

Elliot slumps back in his chair, hands behind his head. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell myself. Seriously, mate, you’ve been with Georgie for ages with no drama – how have you managed it?”

Owen shrugs. He’s not entirely sure of the answer himself. It’s definitely something to do with the clout he gives her among her friends and followers – Instagram photos with him in do about four times as well as those without, apparently.

“We just don’t really have strong opinions about the same things, I suppose – she lets me get on with my rugby stuff, and she complains to me about her job and I make sympathetic noises. It’s hard to have conflicts, that way,” he says. It’s close to the truth, perhaps more so than he was intending.

Elliot sighs. “Well, good for you. All I can say is – talk to her, for God’s sake, if there’s a chance she might have misread something. Even better, do it before she does that.”

Owen bites his lip. It’s obvious what the potential stumbling block could be, at least to him. “So, I have something to tell you,” he says slowly, avoiding his friend’s gaze. “It’s important, and please don’t spread it around.”

Elliot’s eyes widen. “Holy shit, is she pregnant?”

Owen chokes on his mouthful of coffee. “No, no – Jesus, nothing like that.” He takes a second to compose himself, trying not to spray liquid everywhere. It would make a memorable coming out, but he’s had enough surprises today.

He catches Elliot’s eye and holds it. “Um, the thing is… I’m bi.”

Elliot frowns for a second, and then his face breaks into a huge grin. “Fucking hell, dude, that’s awesome! Congrats, wow.”

Owen’s shoulders sag, tension ebbing away. “Thanks, mate. I was pretty sure you’d be fine with it, given that you’re bi too, but you never know.”

Elliot leans over, grabbing him in a one-armed hug. “Since when? I hope you weren’t hiding it from me because you thought I’d be a dick.”

“2012?” Owen says hesitantly. It’s the easiest answer to give – the date of the _first gay thought_ , at least.

Elliot whistles. “So, like, you’ve been sure the whole time, or…?”

“That was when I first started wondering, I guess,” Owen says. It’s easier to have this conversation than with George or Jamie, even though he’s closer with the other two, purely because Elliot gets it that much more. “But then I was busy for the rest of the year, and I don’t remember much of 2013, so it was more this year that I confirmed it.”

“You confirmed it? Mate, does Georgie know?”

Owen shakes his head. “Not like that – I just talked to the player welfare guy about it. No first-hand experience yet, I promise. And no, she doesn’t know. That was what I was thinking about when you said talk to her about potential issues before they become issues. I don’t know if she’s going to be funny about it.”

“From what I’ve heard, she sounds decent enough. It’s the twenty-first century, anyway – if she’s going to kick up a fuss about something as stupid as your sexuality, she’s not worth your time,” Elliot says confidently. It’s exactly what Jamie and George had told him, and Owen finds himself starting to believe it.

“Anyway, you’re a catch,” he continues with a wink. “If she’s an arse, then there are way more fish in the sea now than there were before. You won’t lose out, I swear. Getting with a guy is – yeah. You’re going to love it.”

Owen tries to take the vote of confidence without the accompanying mental images of Jamie and Elliot having sex. He might be into guys, but thinking about two of his best mates in that way is just uncomfortable.

On the topic of uncomfortable things – “You’re out to George, right?”

“Yeah,” Elliot says. “Why?”

“He’s, like, chill with you being bi and everything?” God, he hopes the answer’s yes, or it’s going to suck trying to be friends with George going forwards.

“Yeah, totally,” Elliot says, though he’s frowning a little. “Why, has he been a prick to you? That’s not on, if he has.”

Owen tries not to feel a little hurt. “Not a prick, exactly, but he was kind of weird when I told him. Asking about Georgie straight away, as if I couldn’t be in a relationship with a girl and like guys at the same time.” Elliot’s smirking now, and it makes Owen even more bewildered. “Mate, seriously, what is it?”

“Look, this is completely me making assumptions,” Elliot says, holding up his hands, “but I reckon his little crush on you hasn’t gone away. Me and Jamie are proof that it takes longer to get over these things than you think, and he might just be confused now that there might be a chance with you after so long convincing himself that it’ll never happen.”

It’s a logical argument, Owen can acknowledge. George still having a crush on him, though – he’d prefer that not to be true, so he doesn’t have to beat himself up about however many extra years of anguish he’s caused him.

“Really?” he asks at last, more hesitantly than he would have liked.

“Uh, yes,” Elliot says. “It would be cute, though, with all your history together. Like me and Jamie, but the other way round. Being friends for more than three months before getting together seems like a smart move to me.”

Owen chews at his lip. Like most of the time, Elliot’s making sense. He knows George, even with all the lulls in their friendship, better than pretty much everyone else.

(Apart from Jamie, but – ew. He’s not going there. Jamie’s like a brother to him.)

“All that aside, though – can I add you to our gay group chat now? Or we could just nuke that one and convert the existing one into a gay one, if you’d prefer.” Elliot’s already tapping away on his phone, and Owen can tell he won’t have much say in the matter.

“Jamie thinks you should join the gay chat, and then we delete the straight one,” Elliot says, not looking away from the screen. “Oh, and George agrees. For the _symbolism_ , apparently. Can I go ahead and add you?”

Owen doesn’t bother hiding his grin. “Sure.”

His phone pings, and he unlocks it. _Elliot added you to a new group chat, ‘3 guys 1 chat [rainbow flag emoji]’_ , his notifications inform him.

 _Can we change it to four? Feeling a bit left out :(_ he types. Sums up the last few years of his life, really, and that’s bloody sad.

 _yep yep yep_ , George replies. _doing it now_

_Group chat name changed to ‘4 guys 1 chat [rainbow flag emoji]’._

_got there already haha_ , Jamie sends. _I take it you told him, Faz?_

 _yup, we’re all up to speed now_ , Elliot texts from across the table.

 _all non-het and ready for business lol_ , George sends.

 _I called this years ago btw_ , Elliot sends. _you told me to shut up, but who’s the clever one now??_

 _*the smug one_ , Owen texts, so he’s not lost in the flood of messages.

 _he’s right, you know_ , George replies, and Owen grins.

Elliot kicks him under the table. “Mate, I can see that smile. Don’t pretend you don’t like him.”

“I do like him! Just in a normal – no, not normal, I mean _platonic_ way,” he stutters. He’s just been caught off guard, that’s all. He has a girlfriend.

Elliot raises his eyebrows. “Of course, mate. I believe you.” Both their phones continue to buzz with incoming messages. “Anyway, welcome to the gay brotherhood. Jamie likes making cakes for us, but I think you knew that already.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're communicating! At last!   
> Also, for those of you talking about bulldozers in the comments - I really did try to get a reference in, but I hope you can see from the chapter that there really was nowhere for it to go :/
> 
> [Tumblr.](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com)


	38. Chapter 38

The gay group chat – George had instigated a discussion of whether everyone was still/newly comfortable with the term when he was the only gay one in it, and they’d decided it got the point across – sustains Owen through the next few weeks. It’s hard to worry about what Georgie or Andy might do if they found out when he has his best friends so close again, for the first time in years.

It’s all going swimmingly, until the week of their first match against Bath. Saracens have won all their games so far, but Bath are looking to be the biggest threat to them in the 2014/15 season. Owen doesn’t think that’s the reasoning behind his dream, though – he’s played against the All Blacks and never woken up in a cold sweat.

From what he can remember, it’s not a side effect of the antidepressants, either. He’s just on edge for some reason.

The dream goes something like this: the lads are all preparing for the match as usual, jogging around the pitch and running drills. The crowd heckles him, but it’s water off a duck’s back. He’s chucking a ball to Charlie so he can take a practice kick at the posts, and then-

His eyes lock with a familiar pair of intense grey eyes. He shakes his head, blinks, and looks back. It’s George across the pitch from him, in the blue, black, and white of Bath.

It’s as if reality had jolted slightly, shifted to the left a few centimetres in the most jarring way possible. George looks like himself, but perhaps more serious. They have a match to play, of course, though there’s something more to it.

Maybe it’s because, in this universe he finds himself in, they can’t be such close friends. They would be each other’s closest rivals, jostling for the England shirt in a way that leaves no room for easy friendship and gay jokes.

After the third time he has the dream, Owen manages to jerk himself awake, sending the confusing idea of George playing union to the back of his head. Lying in bed, Georgie asleep beside him, he knows that it hasn’t gone. It’s merely lurking, ready to unnerve him at any time.

Years ago, he would have given anything for the dream to have been his reality. Now, he’d rather keep things as they are – with all the disruptions and misunderstandings and too-long silences along the way. It’s how they ended up where they are, after all, and he wouldn’t change it for the world.

Still, he doesn’t tell the guys about the dreams, just in case. Elliot would send a load of winky faces to the chat, Jamie would send him a concerned message about having an extra session with Mick (he’s gone down to one appointment every fortnight), and George – well, he doesn’t know how George would react, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Dreaming about one of your best friends, the one who’s had a crush on you for half a decade, isn’t something to be shared lightly.

As it turns out, he picks up a thigh strain in the final training session before the game, so he sits it out anyway. JJ and a few of the other England lads come over and commiserate after the final whistle, but they can’t be too sorry. They won 21-11, and it would be an unsatisfactory trip all round if it wasn’t for the epiphany he has as the team prepare to leave the Rec.

Crossing the carpark in the artificial light oozing out of the clubhouse, barely metres away, is Mike Ford – George’s dad, and Bath’s head coach. Owen must have discovered that piece of information somewhere and filed it away in his subconscious, and it came back up to the surface in some kind of anxiety dream.

He watches Mike climb into his car and drive away. How much does he really know about George? Would he be surprised if his son came out to him? From what he’s seen, Mike is a good dad – George has certainly never had cause to complain about him, aside from the absentee label assigned to most athlete parents – but, for them, that could change in the blink of an eye. One simple mistake, and a good relationship could go bad, and a bad one worse.

Once he’s settled into his seat next to Jamie for the journey home, Owen gets out his phone. Georgie’s asked if he wants more steak getting from the shop, and he doesn’t bother replying. She sent it two hours away, when he was busy watching the match. If she’d been paying attention to it, she would have known that.

He scrolls through a few more messages, mostly from the England group chat. Luther’s wife’s apparently just had a baby, so he adds his congratulations to the rest and calls it a job well done.

Owen saves the gay group chat until last. It was a Friday evening game, with Elliot scheduled to play on Sunday, so there’s no reason why the non-Saracens won’t have sent some kind of consolation messages.

Elliot’s kept up a running commentary on the match, it seems like – _stop looking so grumpy, Faz_ is his sole observation on Owen himself – but George has been strangely silent.

“You got anything from George?” Owen asks, before he can stop himself.

“Nope,” Jamie says, though he doesn’t seem too disappointed. “He’s coming home tonight, isn’t he? He’s probably been busy.”

Okay, maybe that was why he’d had a stress dream about George playing for Bath. Mike Ford’s presence combined with George’s imminent return from Leeds had just overwhelmed his brain, not once but _three_ bloody times.

Still, he’s learned from his mum not to expect George to be free straight away. Mike may be in Bath, but Sally-Anne is in Harpenden with Jacob for the time being, so she has the first claim on his time.

“I’ll ask if he wants to come round tomorrow,” he decides, already typing out the message. “You want to join?”

Jamie looks awkward. “I’m actually – I have a thing, mate, sorry.”

“What kind of thing?” He knows when Jamie actually doesn’t want to tell him stuff (he goes all squirmy and fidgety) and this isn’t it. He can push a little, for now.

Jamie rubs at the back of his neck. “It’s not technically a date, but it’s a day out-type thing with a guy. We might turn it into a date along the way.”

Owen snorts. “So you’re having a tour with a view to purchase? Nice one, mate. I mean, that’s fine. I’m sure we’ll be able to find a time between now and January to get all of us together.” Jamie nods, seeming happier now.

_Want to hang out tomorrow? I can offer protein brownies approved by Jamie and team nutritionists._

_absolutely – missed your face_

_eleven? I can get some stuff from Tesco and we can have an indoor picnic_

_Go on then :)_

_:D_

*

George rings the doorbell at eleven on the dot. Owen had only dragged himself out of bed with a groan ten minutes before, so he’s not feeling in the perkiest of moods.

(They’d got back from the Rec at almost one in the morning. He’s allowed a lie-in.)

“Ayup, mate,” George beams on the doorstep when he opens the door. “How’s it going?”

“Tired,” he grumbles. “Stupid evening away games.”

George pats him on the shoulder, grinning, and steps inside. “Well, I’ll have to wake you up somehow.” It’s not his fault that Owen’s mind immediately goes somewhere dirty. Georgie’s around, he’s pretty sure, and he shouldn’t be thinking those things anyway.

It’s only when his sleep-sluggish brain clocks George waiting in the hall that he gives him directions. “Sorry, mate, I hadn’t remembered that this was your first time here. Living room on the left, toilet on the right or at the top of the stairs, and kitchen all the way down the hall on the right.”

George sticks his tongue out. “Thanks, mate. Such a good host at – oh, let me check – _nearly lunchtime_ , aren’t you?”

Owen swats at his head. George easily ducks under his hand. “Do you want to put anything in the fridge? I’ve only just had breakfast, so I won’t be up for picnicking for a while yet.”

“Fine by me,” George says, walking through to the kitchen and drawing Owen along with him. “My mum’s back on her mission to feed me up as much as possible while I’m home, so I could wait a few hours.”

“Yeah? It’s only been half a day, surely.” Owen tries not to be jealous of George’s relationship with his parents, as usual.

“All the more reason for her to get going early.” George rolls his eyes as he unpacks his rucksack into the fridge. He’s taking care to match the existing organisation system, which Owen is grateful for. “Felt like I was eating half a farmyard for breakfast this morning, I tell you.”

Owen yawns. “I wouldn’t have minded that. The antidepressants I’m on make me want to eat a horse, but obviously I can’t.”

It takes half a second for what he’s said to register, filtering through to explain George’s apprehensive look. “Fuck, I didn’t tell you, did I? I started the drugs in – May, I think, and they really increased my appetite.”

“Better than what was going on before, I reckon,” George says, returning his attention to the fridge. “Aside from all the not talking and stuff, you were starting to look proper gaunt.”

He shrugs, uncomfortable. Georgie had liked how he looked at the time, and he wasn’t complaining about the six pack that appeared without too much effort on his part – his girlfriend’s even put up some photos from a beach holiday that he can’t remember, almost as an homage to his ultra-toned body.

“And before you say anything,” George says, fixing him with a stern glare, “you might have looked shredded, but it was your mental health that was suffering. Don’t try to do that again, for the love of God. It was scary.”

“Okay, mum, I’m sorry,” he says. He’s doing better now – why do they have to keep bringing up the past? It was a mistake from him to continue with the eating less, exercising more regime, but his brain wasn’t working properly at the same time. He’s taken steps to deal with it, cope with it, whatever the neutral language is that Mick would use.

“Glad to hear it,” George starts, but before he can continue, his phone goes off. “Ah, shit,” he says, looking at the caller ID. “I really need to take this, mate – is there somewhere I can go?”

“Spare room?” Owen suggests. “Up the stairs, second on the left. The door should be open.”

“Thanks,” George says, flashing him a smile before hurrying away. Owen closes the fridge door and listens to George’s footsteps going up the stairs and along the landing. It’s a small house, so it’s not his fault if he can hear George’s half of the conversation coming through the floor.

“I – yeah, seriously? That’s great. How much?” A pause. “Alright. Thanks so much, mate. I could kiss you right now. Yeah, okay. I’m not around at the moment, but I can come up in a few weeks to sign the stuff. Yep.” Owen strains to hear more. “Okay. See you soon, Jack. Thanks again – this is awesome!”

Owen goes through to the living room and flops down on one of the sofas, aiming for casual and missing by a country mile. “What was that about?” he asks, as George comes in with a massive grin.

“I mean, don’t tell anyone, but – St Helens have offered me a contract! I’m signing in a few weeks, once I go up north again.”

“ _Georgie_ ,” Owen breathes. “That’s incredible.” He’s on his feet before he knows what he’s doing, grabbing George in a crushing hug. From the shuddering breaths he can feel against his chest, his friend appreciates it.

“That’s why I wasn’t looking for a house in Leeds,” he says, tightening his grip around Owen’s waist. “Yes, we just won the Challenge Cup, but I always wanted to play for St Helens.”

“Sixty miles isn’t commuting distance,” Owen agrees. “But still – wow. So proud of you, mate.”

George pushes his head into Owen’s chest a little, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Fuck me – I’m so happy.”

Of course, that’s when Georgie walks in.

“Hello, love,” Owen says, digs his fingers into George’s shoulders to alert him to her presence.

“Morning,” she says, eyebrows raised. She must be just back from a run, beads of sweat pricking into being across her forehead. “George, is it?”

“Um, yes,” George says, disentangling himself from Owen’s arms. “Pleased to meet you.”

He goes for the handshake, Georgie goes for a hug – it’s like two dogs trying to mark their territory or establish their dominance. They work it out into a half-hug that has Owen grinding his teeth. Why they’re so prickly with each other, he can’t tell.

“George’s agent just told him he’s got a contract with St Helens,” Owen offers, like he has to justify their behaviour.

Georgie smiles, all teeth. “That’s nice, I’m sure. Well, I’ll be off for a shower – behave, boys.”

Owen grimaces at George as soon as her back’s turned. “I don’t know why she’s so weird with you,” he murmurs, careful while she could still be in earshot. “She’s fine with Jamie.”

George sits down on the floor, cross-legged and propping up his chin with one hand. “Maybe because she doesn’t see Jamie as a threat,” he says, going for leering but mostly coming off sad. “Does she know anything about me, or…?”

“Not that I can think of,” Owen says. “We watch a lot of your matches, but that’s pretty much it.”

George snickers. “So your quality time together is watching me play rugby? Yeah, I bet she loves that.”

Owen frowns. He knows Georgie puts up with so much rugby league for him instead of actually enjoying it herself, but put like that – maybe her reaction to seeing him and George all wrapped up in each other was understandable. Would he mind if he walked into a room and saw her hugging it out with one of her best friends? Not really, he decides.

(It would be different if it were George and Kit, for example, but he’s not going to examine that right now.)

Owen sits down on the sofa, having decided it’s too awkward to keep standing in the middle of the room. George slumps down next to him – most people tend to go for the other sofa, but he doesn’t mind a bit of closer company.

“So Saints,” he says, watching the trees waving in the breeze outside the window. “How many seasons?”

“Three to start with, with an option for more,” George grins at him, arms stretched out along the back of the sofa. He looks like the cat who got the cream, and rightly so. He deserves this.

“Closer to home, isn’t it?” Owen asks. They both know, but it’s nice to talk it through like this. Their first chat in ages when they’re both in the same place, and it’s turning out surprisingly comfortably.

“Yep. Makes it easier looking for a house up that way, anyhow, because I know the area.”

“You looking already?” Either he’s known about this move for a while, or it’s been a long term goal.

George shifts to face him. “I like the look of Crosby. You know, the beach, quite small, not too far from most places…”

Owen nods, smiles as if George is asking for his approval. Maybe he is, because he grins a little wider. “Sounds good. Did you ever go on a school trip there, or did you do Southport instead?”

“Southport, mate,” George says. “My school was better than yours, let’s be honest.”

Owen goes to kick him, remembering too late that he hadn’t played the previous night because of a thigh strain. He grits his teeth and levers his leg back into position with his hands, too stiff to avoid George noticing.

“But like, the extension,” he says in an effort to distract George. “If all goes well, would you take it?”

George shrugs, though it doesn’t look like the ruse entirely convinced him. “Probably. I mean, there isn’t anywhere else I’d rather be playing, so unless it goes dramatically wrong and I have to flee to union in shame…”

Owen perks up at that. Long-buried childhood dreams revived, as well as the one from only a few nights ago. “Okay, say it does go really badly and the whole team implodes – I’m just saying!” he defends himself from George’s glare. “Would you switch to union, or was that just a joke?”

“Would you switch to league if Saracens fucked up?” George counters, though he does at least seem to be considering the question.

“Probably not,” he’s forced to admit. “They’re my club, you know? I’ve been with them my whole career – I owe them something for that.”

George chews on his lip. “Yeah, I get that. I don’t have the same kind of loyalty to Saints as a player, but I always want to see them do well, and even better if I can be part of that on the pitch. If things did start to go south, I would definitely think about going somewhere else.”

“Union?” Owen pushes. He just wants to know, now the idea’s wormed its way into his head, if it’s an unrealistic dream to have that one day they’ll be playing side by side again.

George shakes his head. “Never say never, I guess. At the moment, I’ve got more that I want to do in league – World Cup, that stuff – but union’s still pretty fun.”

“You could come to Sarries,” Owen says, already picturing it. “We could play 10-12 every week. It would be awesome.”

George lays a steadying hand on his arm. “I said maybe, mate. Anyway, I don’t think we would work together as well in a club setting – always jostling for selection, and when other people come into the equation too. Internationally, it would be great, but I don’t think Saracens would take me on at the same time as you.”

“You’d better stay in league, then,” Owen pretends to sniff. “Can’t have you kicking me out of my own club.”

George grins. “Good thing you’re realistic about that, if nothing else.”

Some time later, Owen hears Georgie come down the stairs and go into the kitchen. She’s out the front door before he has time to check in with her, though, and he can’t find it in him to care. He gets George for a handful of days a year, while Georgie’s always around. He can prioritise one of them over the other for a couple of hours.

He and George fetch the picnic through from the fridge and spread it out on the picnic blanket that Owen had dug out of the cupboard specially. It’s oddly similar to his first date with Georgie, aside from the obvious facts that they’re inside, in October, and George is a guy.

Owen thinks about mentioning it for a second, the strange parallel, but he keeps his mouth shut. If Elliot was right about George’s ongoing crush on him, he doesn’t want to bring it up again and cause him more pain – especially not in the house he shares with his girlfriend.

“So, the plan’s Saracens all the way for you?” George asks a while later, licking pork pie crumbs off his fingers.

Owen arches his back, stretches out a crick before answering. “Ideally, yeah. The Bedford loan kind of ruined my plan of being a one-club player, but I can’t see myself wanting to go anywhere else. The coaches are really good, the lads are great – well, most of them-”

“Billy’s still being a twat?” George asks, and Owen curses internally. He should have known that George would pick up on that.

“Not so much recently,” he says, and it’s true. With his newly acknowledged attraction to guys, he suddenly has a heightened awareness of all the snide comments Billy makes – mostly to Jamie, but some more general ones as well – and they’ve definitely dropped off, for whatever reason.

George hums. “That must be good news. Maybe he’s actually learned to think about people other than himself for once.” Owen makes a face. As much of a dick as Billy is, Owen’s still hesitant to talk badly of a teammate. If anything, it makes him wonder what shit his teammates have talked about him in the past – or might still be doing.

“Look, mate,” George says, seeing his expression, “he’d be saying stupid stuff to you too, if he knew. Just because you’re lucky enough to get out of it by not being obvious, or having a visible reaction, or whatever it was that set him off on Jamie, doesn’t mean you should let him keep it up.”

“Treat others as you would like to be treated, you mean,” Owen says, the words leaving a funny taste in his mouth.

“Yes,” George huffs. “If you won’t stand up for people, they won’t do it for you. I’d have thought you’d realised that by now.” He sighs. “Look, I get that you don’t have the disadvantages of being a short, half-out gay man in rugby, but you’re close enough. Think about it, maybe?”

Owen nods. What George is saying is true, he knows that objectively, but he doesn’t want to go too far out on a limb and risk damaging himself or the team. Going after Billy when he’s being homophobic to Jamie is a very different thing than trying to chase up all possible offenders.

He doesn’t know how to continue the conversation without either pissing George off more or exposing his ignorance when it comes to LGBT stuff in general – he’s busy, but that’s no excuse when George is in a very similar boat. Elliot definitely wouldn’t stand for it, being another bi rugby union player. He’s got to do better, but sometimes it’s easier to play the depression card and retreat.

For him, it really feels like it comes down to working for the togetherness of the team as a whole, ignoring whatever differences of opinion may occur, or supporting some people over others because they happen to be like him, or have similar issues. Doesn’t that count as favouritism?

Suddenly, he’s bone-tired. George has been round for the few hours that he’d promised, and the time spent together up until now was perfectly pleasant. It’s just – George has hit on something that he’s been trying to avoid recently, and he would have been happy to keep it that way.

“You alright, mate?” George asks. “You’ve – slumped a bit.”

He stifles a yawn. “I’m okay. Just the late night, I reckon.”

“If you say so,” George says, though his raised eyebrows suggest he’s not convinced. “I’d best be off now, anyway. Mum wants me to help cook tea tonight.”

“Okay, Georgie,” Owen says, hating how relieved he is. He forces himself up to his feet to show George out. “See you soon, maybe?”

“Of course,” George says as he looks at his phone in the hallway. “If not before, definitely something for Christmas with Jamie and Elliot, yeah?”

Owen nods, unlocking the door. “Looking forward to it. And – it’s good to have you around again, Georgie.”

“See you soon, Owen,” George says softly. “Look after yourself.”

Owen has to lean against the wall to keep himself upright as George gets in his car and reverse out onto the road. It might be that he’s genuinely tired, or the drugs are having some unexpected side effect again, or he’s just making excuses for himself.

Perhaps it would have been better to have Georgie around today instead of George. With how little they seem to be talking to each other at the moment, it wouldn’t have left his head in such a state.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you thought about this, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com). Have a good week!


	39. Chapter 39

He doesn’t have much time after that to mull over George and Georgie, their reactions to each other and his reactions to them. It’s a couple more games for Saracens, and then straight into training camp for the autumn internationals.

(Owen won’t lie and says he’s not nervous. It’s just that he’s not planning on telling anyone that.)

Ben jumps on him as soon as he walks into the common area at Pennyhill, complaining about how he’d been _abandoned_ and _hung out to dry_ and _all on my lonesome, Faz, have some compassion_. Owen tries to absorb all his energy, but all he gets for his trouble is a headache threatening on the horizon.

The coaching team stick to their word about keeping him in England contention; after a few training sessions, Stuart calls him into his office.

“Look, Faz, I’ve been really impressed with your performance so far. After the news about tour, I was worried your head might not be on straight-” _He doesn’t know the half of it_ , Owen thinks, fighting to his smile- “but you’ve come back all guns blazing. Danny and Stephen are both happy for you to be back in the running for selection, although obviously not so happy that you’re currently winning that race.”

He has to blink a few times at that, smile wiped clean off his face. Is Stuart really saying…?

“We wouldn’t normally ask a player this, but given the circumstances – are you feeling up to starting at the weekend? I know it’s against the All Blacks, but it’s going to be even more of a challenge without you on the field.” Stuart’s smiling encouragingly, ever the teacher.

“I, er – I don’t know what to say,” Owen stutters. He’d have been satisfied with a place on the bench, after the last few months and years, so a start, against New Zealand – it’s more than he could have hoped for.

“Yes?” Stuart says, leaning forward. “I don’t want to downplay the other two, but you’re still our first-choice flyhalf. You are essential to our chances of winning this game.”

Owen can’t stop a smile at that. Ego stroking is the best way to a man’s heart. “Alright, then.” The antidepressants have mostly regulated his moods, eliminating the lowest dips of the swings and roundabouts. With Mick on standby for a call, he’s 90% confident of his ability to play in this match. For the moment, winning might be a challenge too far, but he’s prepared to try.

“That’s what we like to hear,” Stuart says decisively, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good man. The team announcement is tomorrow afternoon, so expect some media requests.”

Owen stands up and follows the head coach out. “Thank you for the opportunity, Stuart. I’ll do my best.”

(Mick would be proud of him for that. It’s a reasonable expectation to set, whatever the coach might read into it.)

“We’re glad to have you back, kid,” Stuart says. “Now, go for a run or something – that’s what you do to relax, isn’t it?”

With a wince, Owen walks away. Maybe some people had noticed the changes in his behaviour, more than just Ben and his close friends, but they hadn’t seen fit to act on it-

No. He can’t think about that right now.

Instead, he gets out his phone and texts the group chat. _Guess who’s starting at the weekend!!_

 _think you’ll find it’s me_ , Jamie responds instantly. _Schalk wanted the week off_

 _actually it’s me_ , Elliot sends a second later. _established Wasps centre, Mr Elliot Daly_

Another moment, and _I’m starting offseason training if that counts??!_ from George.

Owen laughs despite himself. _Thanks lads, knew I could rely on you._

 _np!!_ Jamie sends. _love you really though_

 _yeah, lots of love from us club players, we’re your biggest fans_ , Elliot texts.

George is strangely silent.

*

They lose by three points to New Zealand. Owen scores eleven of their twenty-one points, but it’s not enough. He can practically feel Cips on the bench breathing down his neck, and Andy’s steely gaze boring into him from the coaches’ box. No matter that Cruden and Barrett missed all three conversions while he only missed one – it’s still not enough.

(It’s only made worse when, in the pouring rain afterwards, Nigel Owens comes up to him and pats him on the back. He doesn’t need pity.)

His old self would have decided to knuckle down and work harder, taking the loss as a personal affront and making an effort on behalf of the entire team beyond the boundaries of what was safe. The new him – he’s not quite sure what he’s supposed to do.

Talking to the guys, understanding what went wrong, is a decent first step, but how else is he meant to improve than through long hours of practice? That’s where the marginal gains are made, and they do only appear to need marginal gains at the moment.

Four more points would have swung the match in their favour, but it wasn’t to be.

Nevertheless, Owen tries his best, as he’d promised Stuart. He does a little bit of extra training by himself, metronomically kicking the ball through the posts from the tee and from the hand, but never more than half an hour at a time. He’s got Mick’s voice in his head warning him not to overdo it, and he’s doing his best to obey.

The coaches see the effort he’s putting in, and he’s rewarded with another number ten shirt for his pile at home. Danny’s on the bench again, staring daggers at him all through the captain’s run and the hours leading up to the game.

It’s not his fault that he’s named to start. He deserves it.

The only issue is – the team fully deserve their three-point loss, for the second week in a row.

28-31, in the final reckoning, with Lambie’s drop goal making the tiny difference. Three tries and two conversions and three penalties apiece, and yet it still came down to the flyhalves and Owen’s lack of creativity or imagination or whatever else the papers are going to have to say about it tomorrow.

Cips played the last eight minutes, to be fair to him, but nothing could be done by that point. Owen had already fucked it up by then.

Five losses in a row. His chest is tight as he walks off the field, feeling less like he’s escaping the lion’s den and more like he’s going right into it. Stuart won’t be mad – that’s not his style – but he can think of a couple of coaches who will absolutely scream at him. He runs shaking fingers through his sodden hair.

_It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay._

It would be easier if his racing heart and churning stomach would believe him.

Stuart and Andy don’t meet his eyes as he files past them to his locker. Graham gives a little shrug of the shoulders, but it’s more _you’re not my issue_ than any gesture of support. Danny next to him on the bench isn’t doing anything to help – it was his fumble over the line that likely cost them the win, so he’s just as much of a nervous wreck as Owen.

Still, he sits down and braces himself for the oncoming storm. He isn’t going to be able to switch on robot mode this time – Mick has firmly banned that option – so maybe the best course of action is to ignore what’s happening as much as possible. He already knows what he and the team did wrong; he wouldn’t be playing at this level without a healthy dose of self-criticism (that tips over into unhealthy just a few too many times).

So when Stuart gets to his feet, Andy looming behind him like a scruffy, tracksuited bouncer, Owen looks away. The rest of the lads are staring either at the floor or the ceiling, so he’s not in the minority. The first words of vitriol come flowing out of Stuart’s mouth, but it washes over Owen like waves at the beach.

He tries to take himself back to that day, swimming with Kruiser and chatting shit with Jamie. It was a good day, almost polar opposite to this – no yelling, bright sunshine, and lots of ice cream. The roaring in his ears drowns out Stuart’s criticism, but then it’s Andy’s turn.

Owen scratches his nails against the wood of the bench. Any sensation to overpower Andy – _his dad_ – and his yelling. He presses his studs together, feels the click-clack of the metal hitting and sliding past each of the little posts. Five more minutes at most, surely. They’ve got a post-match meal to get to.

Even with all the distraction techniques, trying to distance himself from the situation, his heart is pounding in his chest. It can’t be healthy, having such an elevated heart rate for so long after the match. His breaths are speeding up, lungs contracting and expanding faster and faster, but it’s not enough. Black spots are forming in front of his eyes, and can’t anybody else see them?

Suddenly everyone’s moving – the speeches must have finished – and he bolts for the toilets, his studs skidding on the hard floor like he’s walking on ice. Owen shoves his way into a cubicle, locking the door with the last of his energy, and collapses down on the floor.

He gets his head between his knees, eyes squeezed tightly shut so he can’t see the swaying of the floor.

_It’s going to be okay._

But is it, though? His trembling muscles are shaking with fear and cold and exhaustion, and his stomach’s clenching like it’s trying to expel what little he managed to force down at lunchtime. Fuck, fuck, fuck – he needs to tell someone, get someone in here to help. His throat’s alternately too dry and too full with bile to help, and he won’t open his eyes in case the whole world tips sideways.

Digging his nails into his thighs, he forces himself to his feet. _Should have taken your studs off earlier, moron, but too late now._ He doesn’t know what he’s going to do now, head spinning and heart pounding and eyes threatening to spill over with tears. His legs shake, and he’s in severe danger of collapsing right back to where he started.

With more effort than he’d put in during the game – _maybe you would have won then, idiot_ – he unlocks the door and stumbles out. The only person out there is Ben, thank God, and the scrumhalf jerks around at the unexpected clatter of Owen’s studs.

“Fuck, mate,” Ben says, wide-eyed. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

Owen waves a hand at him, gasping for breath. “Help me – shit!” He’s back on the floor, landing hard on his wrist. _That’s going to sting tomorrow_ , the only rational thought in the swirling frenzy.

“Okay, okay,” Ben says, crouching down in front of him. “I don’t know what I’m meant to be doing here – should I get someone?”

Owen shakes his head wildly. This can’t spread beyond this room, or he’ll be the laughing stock of the team – and the Premiership, within about ten minutes. He grabs hold of Ben’s hand, pressing it against his chest so Ben can feel how fast his heart is going.

“Alright, mate,” Ben murmurs, as much to himself as to Owen. “Let’s try and take some deep breaths, yeah? Try and calm down.” He brings their joined hands to his own chest, exaggerating his own breathing for Owen to match.

“You’re safe here, Faz,” he continues in the same low tone. “I’ve got you. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Owen takes a long, shuddering breath, fighting through the discomfort. Ben knows what he’s talking about: if he says it’s okay, it has to be okay.

“Come on, mate.” A gentle pressure swiping back and forth on his knee, another point to focus on. “You’re doing really well. A few more in and out, and you’ll be back to normal.”

He pushes aside the immediate retorts about _doing really well_ and _normal_ and tries to follow his instructions. It’s what he can fall back on when nothing else is working – following instructions.

“Yep, that’s it. Almost there, I reckon.”

Owen blinks through teary eyes to see Ben’s concerned face, and then he’s crying, curled into Ben’s chest on the floor of the home toilets at Twickenham. He thanks his lucky stars that nobody had come in – that would have sent him right back into his panic.

“Hey, you’re okay, Faz,” Ben says, stroking up and down his back. “Whatever it is, we can sort it, I promise.”

Owen sniffles. To be fair, Ben hadn’t been on the pitch for most of the game, so maybe he’s telling the truth. Whether Owen himself can contribute to fixing the team’s mistakes next week is another matter.

“Do you think you can stand up?” Ben asks. “No offence, but you do need a shower.”

He grips onto Ben’s hand tighter. If he takes his boots off first, it’s a possibility. Ben takes his other arm and links it round his shoulder so he can lever Owen up, and it’s then that it all goes wrong.

“What’s going on here?” It’s Billy, because it was never going to be anyone else. “Cuddling on the floor after a match? I’d though that having girlfriends would stop you being-” Owen bites down on his tongue, the explosion of pain enough to mask Billy’s words for a moment- “but apparently not. Jesus, can’t you wait a few hours until you’re in your room.”

Ben lets go of Owen’s hands, stands up to talk to Billy. He should listen, so he knows what to say to defend himself when he’s actually capable of moving or talking, but he can’t. Whatever Ben’s saying, he trusts it to be at least halfway sympathetic. Billy, though – he’s a lost cause.

Owen hunches down, stares at his hands, fiddling with a blade of grass embedded in the mud of his boots. It’s what George was saying, he realises. It was only a matter of time before Billy reverted to type and included Owen on his list of targets. Even Georgie – she’s not enough to protect him from the mocking and the bullying and the homophobia, nor Ben and Charlotte and their literal, actual, living and breathing heterosexually-produced baby.

He wants to yell at Billy, to scream at him to fuck off, but – this time it genuinely isn’t that he’s trying to maintain the integrity of the team. His fingers are visibly shaking, and his mouth is dry as bone. He couldn’t say anything if he tried – and he wants to, this time for maybe the first time.

From what he can vaguely hear through the panicked fog surrounding him, Ben’s laying into Billy loudly enough for both of them. This is – not good, he registers dimly. Two of his teammates shouting at each other, not long after a loss, is never a sign of a healthy team dynamic, and the frequency of the words _gay_ and _hell_ and _fuck you_ is only going to complicate matters.

How the coaches are going to smooth over this one, he doesn’t know. As long as it’s not one of those awful meetings where they have to be honest and talk about their feelings, it might be okay. On the other hand – given that Andy Farrell is on the coaching staff, they’re probably going to be told off for disrupting the team and instructed to get over themselves.

Owen’s about ready to get to his feet and join the shouting match when it’s over, Billy stomping back to the locker room and Ben dropping to the floor in front of him.

“Sorry about that, mate,” Ben says, touching his ankle briefly. “It can’t have helped with your panic attack, or whatever that was, but someone needed to tell him it’s not okay to say those things.”

Owen reaches out and squeezes Ben’s hand. “Thanks,” he whispers hoarsely. “I appreciate it – earlier, and just now.”

Ben clucks at him, half-smiling, and rubs at his hair. “Don’t worry about it. These things happen. I just wanted to remind you that not everyone’s a dick, you know? Some people round here might be arseholes, but that doesn’t mean we all are.”

“Yeah,” Owen says. “Thank you. It was good.” He’s so tired, from the game and the panicking and the shouting, that he can’t manage to say any more.

“Not a problem, Fazlet,” Ben says, hauling him to his feet. “Now, time for you to have a wash, I think – I can wait for you to get out if you don’t want to run into _some people_ by yourself.”

Owen smiles tiredly at him, even as he lurches to one side. It’s nice having friends in camp. It makes things easier.

(His dream from last night flashes through his head again, George watching from the bench in place of Cips. Things could be a lot easier, but then he’s not that lucky.)

*

Funnily enough, word gets around that he was in pieces after the second loss in a row – Stuart charitably doesn’t mention the ensuing fight in his meeting with Owen two days later – and he’s taken out of the matchday squad.

“We want to try something different, in a match that doesn’t have such high stakes,” Stuart says calmly, like he’s not tearing Owen’s heart in two with every word. “Danny and Stephen have done well so far in training, so they deserve their chance.”

“Yes, sir,” Owen says mechanically.

“I was also concerned that we put too much pressure on you in the last fortnight to come back from your time away and perform at the same level immediately. Hopefully this time will give you some space to reflect.” Nothing in Stuart’s tone suggests emotion or worry, like his kind words in their previous one-on-one meeting were all for show.

“Yes, sir.” It’s a small blessing that Stuart is the one to deliver the news; Andy would have pushed him to the point of tears by now.

“Depending on the outcome of this little experiment, and obviously depending on injuries, we imagine you’ll be back in some capacity for the Australia game,” Stuart says. It’s a carrot dangled before his face to entice him to improve, with the stick not far behind.

“Thank you, sir. I’m sorry for my behaviour.”

Stuart’s impersonal mask slips for a moment. “Owen, we’re not punishing you for what happened after the match. It was far from ideal, admittedly, but it wasn’t your fault. We want to help you improve, not pile on the pressure until you crack.”

It’s not as reassuring as Stuart might think it is, but Owen musters a smile anyway. “Thank you.”

“I’ll see you later for video review.”

With that, the discussion is over. He’s lost his place in the twenty-three for the Samoa game, and that might be his Test series done.

 _Fuck_.

*

There doesn’t seem much point in telling people before the team announcement, seen as he’s barely processed the news himself in the intervening fourteen hours. His mum promises to have a word with Andy (for all the good that will do) and the gay group chat are full of indignant rage.

He hasn’t mentioned Ben’s fight with Billy – he’s not willing to lay claim to any part of it himself, given he was basically sat in the corner crying while it happened. Jamie’s been happier recently because Billy’s homophobia appeared to be diminished, or at least directed elsewhere. If he tells him and spoils the illusion, it’ll be him to blame, not Billy.

George would inevitably want to know how Owen himself had reacted to yet another instance of Billy’s twattish behaviour, and Owen’s answer would only disappoint him. Instead, it’s easier to brush it one side. Maybe once he’s back with Sarries, he can bring it up with Mick (but only in the last five minutes of the session).

He spends the week’s training sessions pretending to be Tusi Pisi and various other Samoan backs. It’s interesting and a different challenge, but he’d much rather be in Cips’ or even Myler’s position. It’s even doing the rounds that Billy Twelvetrees is going to be called into camp as a backup for injury, and that’s when Owen knows he really has to get his act together.

He can’t do anything from the stands on Saturday save yelling a lot and drawing disgruntled complaints from the spectators around him. A 28-9 win, better than anything he’s managed for England recently, although it is against Tier Two opponents. Clearly, he’s going to have to push in training during the week, and hope against hope that it’s enough.

(The little cold he’s developing won’t deter him. A few paracetamol with breakfast and lunch get him through training, and then he goes to bed as early as possible. He’s explained the situation to Ben so he doesn’t worry, which makes him feel slightly less guilty.)

He hauls himself through prep for Australia, making his voice heard on the pitch and during analysis sessions. It elevates him in the eyes of the coaches, even though he’s exhausted and foggy by the end of each day, and which is the thing that really matters? Less than a year to the World Cup, and the answer is obvious to Owen.

Sometimes, he even manages to text Georgie to assure her that he’s still alive – but only sometimes. He’s so ready to go back tom Saracens, however defeatist it sounds.

In the end, he’s on the bench against Australia. He couldn’t have hoped for more, but he has to tell himself that several times before he can stop feeling upset about it. He’s back ahead of Myler in the pecking order, and Twelvetrees hasn’t been called up yet. It’s bad, but it’s not as bad as it could be.

(He thinks about it in quieter moments, what the worst case scenario would have been. No concussion, probably, and slowly working himself into the ground and fading away over long, lonely months. He’s so glad that didn’t happen.)

Owen brushes the thought away. England have lost five matches in a row, and Saracens are on a losing streak that’s almost as bad. He can’t do anything to help, but he feels each defeat as keenly as those actually playing.

Match day comes around, and the usual nerves aren’t making themselves known, even a few hours before kick-off when they arrive at Twickenham. He walks through the corridor of cheering fans, flanked by Ben and Jack, but his main focus is on trying not to sneeze. His head’s feeling worse than ever today, despite all the water and tablets he’s been chugging.

It’s ironic that, the cold aside, he’s actually in a more positive mindset than he has been for a while. The loss isn’t decided yet, the pressure isn’t all on his shoulders, and he can come on and make a difference when Stuart decides the time is right.

As long as he doesn’t spray mucus all over the referee, he’ll be okay.

The team go through their warmups, breath crystallising in the frosty November air. It’s a brisk autumn day edging into winter, and Owen starts to shiver whenever he stops running. He can’t imagine how cold the Samoan boys must be feeling who usually play down in the south of France. Being a substitute does have its advantages – he gets a huge long coat to wear for the first half, so he’s as warmly dressed as most of the crowd.

Anthems done, he retreats to the bench to huddle with Wiggy and Kruiser on either side of him. It’s a decent start by England, Ben laying an absolutely clattering hit on Folau to force a knock-on, and then it seems relatively simple work to put Ben Morgan over in the corner. Cips gets the conversion and a brace of penalties to Foley’s meagre one, and England head in 13-3 up at the break.

Owen’s sat between Marland Yarde and Wiggy in the locker room, all the substitutes wrapped up warm while the starting fifteen’s teeth chatter opposite them. The white England shirts are only making them look more pallid and cold. On the other hand, the purple warmup jackets would have emphasised the veins showing through more than one player’s skin, so it’s the lesser of two evils.

(Purple, anyway – who makes a rugby kit purple? Stupid idea, in Owen’s opinion.)

England keep forging ahead after the break, everyone diving into rucks with such enthusiasm that he can only attribute to the weather. When he’s yelling at everyone to get stuck in, they usually hang back even more.

It pays off, though, 23-10 with twenty minutes to go. Graham sends Owen and Wiggy off to run some drills, and his heart somehow manages to leap and sink at the same time at the prospect of going onto the pitch. It’s nice to keep warm, he can’t disagree with that, but it’s making his heart rate rise again. If this is going to happen every time he gets close to playing for England-

Owen slaps himself on the thigh, not too hard. It breaks him out of his negative spiral, and he can always pretend it was a fly or something. He and Wiggy pass a ball between them as England push towards the Australian try line at the opposite end of the pitch. Maybe the coaches are trying to give him exposure therapy, getting him close to the action without actually being involved. It’s a decent idea, but that’s all it is.

He doesn’t receive the call to take Danny’s place in the end, resigned to shaking hands with all the players and the match officials in the long black coat of the _almost good enough but not quite_ gang. Marland has to wear the coat of shame too, so it’s not as humiliating as it could have been.

26-17 – it’s not humiliating for any of them, especially against a southern hemisphere side (albeit one on one of their worst tours in years). After the last few months, it’s what the team needs to create a positive atmosphere heading into the World Cup year.

After this, it’s the Six Nations, and some warmup matches, and then it’s the World Cup, internationally speaking. Owen still has most of a Premiership season to complete, but it’s hard not to fixate on the World Cup. Firstly, it’s the _World Cup_. Secondly, he was brought in after the 2011 mess with a view to 2015, so he’s expected to deliver.

(Maybe less so now, with how he’s performed for England over the last six months, but he’s still the golden boy. He might be the grumpy one, but Cips is the openly antagonistic one. The media have made it clear who they prefer.)

It’s absolutely more than a relief than anything for camp to draw to a close and for Owen to drive back to St Albans with Kruiser. Whatever the issue is in his head regarding playing for England, it doesn’t affect him when he’s with Saracens, so he’s looking forward to a more relaxing couple of months.

After what he’s been through over this international series – he deserves it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So [this link](https://youtu.be/wNpd5N94egg?t=264) isn't technically part of this fic's universe, but it's a nice interview with George after the Australia game mentioned in this chapter. (I definitely haven't spent several minutes working out how to say 'pleasing' in his accent...)
> 
> I'd love to hear what you thought about this update in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


	40. Chapter 40

It’s underrated, having a stable home life, Owen decides pretty quickly after getting back to St Albans. While he was away – with his _job_ , not like he was gallivanting around on holiday or something dubious like that – Georgie had apparently decided that they’re having a break, at least until Christmas. It gives him a lot more free time than he was expecting, but sometimes it’s lonely to come home to an empty house.

Still, he throws himself into rugby, because it’s the best coping mechanism he knows. The first match back for the internationals is against Sale in the Champions Cup, with Charlie at ten and Owen at twelve. Jamie’s starting at hooker for once, so Owen feels a responsibility to make this rare opportunity a good one for him.

He’s a little nervy as he waits to receive the kick-off – it’s Cips starting at ten for Sale, in a matchup billed as a contest for the England shirt ahead of 2015. Owen wants to tell everyone that it’s not a fair contest, given he’s playing at inside centre rather than flyhalf, but most people seem to have bought into that narrative already.

Still, he’s committed to doing his best for the team, no matter where they decide to play him. As long as he’s on the pitch, he’s (probably) happy.

It’s so much easier playing with his boys than with the England guys, he realises within minutes. They just get each other more, all clicking in a way that he only does with a select few players from other clubs – Ben, sometimes Danny, and a couple more. With Saracens, he’s surrounded by people he’s known for years, and they combine perfectly.

Case in point – he goes over for his first try of the season within fifteen minutes. Wiggy passes to Charlie, who passes it to Owen as he runs a crash line, and he’s in.

He lets himself flop on the ground for a few seconds, ball digging into his ribs. After a lot of rugby and mental health and personal life struggles recently – it’s good to get one monkey off his back. He doesn’t have long to savour the moment before Charlie and Jamie are hauling him to his feet, hitting over the head with love.

“Good lad,” Jamie murmurs in his ear, before Owens shoves him away. It’s nice to be appreciated, but also – they have a game to win.

And, just like that, they do win. It’s 15-9 in the end, nothing stellar, but he’ll take it. With England, it never felt like he could be confident of a win, or any result. A certain loss might transform into an unexpected victory in an instant, whereas Saracens are at least consistent in their results.

It’s been miserable watching his boys lose for two months straight, especially when he can’t do anything about it while he’s warming the bench for England. But now, to be helping them to a win for the first time in ages – he’s properly, genuinely happy.

Even Cips refusing to meet his eyes when they shake hands after the game can’t make a dent in his good mood. He’s been happy recently, he’s sure of it, but nothing as unassailable as this. Georgie aside, it feels like everything might be coming together.

It’s good that he’s in such a positive mood for once, because the leadup to the London Welsh game threatens to throw him off track. Nobody has to tell him it’s the anniversary of his concussion and all the issues that it revealed. He jolts out of restless sleep almost every night in the week before the match, though there’s nobody lying next to him to lull him back to sleep.

As a result, he’s jittery and tired when he turns up at the club for the match. He’s lucky it’s a home game, or he would have driven Jamie mad with his constant fidgeting. The gay group chat keeps going off with messages of support, but the persistent notifications set his teeth on edge more than anything else. Jamie ends up taking his phone and putting it in his own kit bag just to stop him glaring at it.

“You’ll be okay, Faz,” he whispers, as they wait in the tunnel to go out onto the pitch. “It was an accident, that’s all. It won’t happen again.”

He nods slightly so Jamie can see his acknowledgement; his jaw is too tight for words. It was an accident, but it was his fault, not the Clermont player’s. If he’d done a proper tackle, it wouldn’t have been an issue, but he hadn’t, so he’d knocked himself out cold. He’s a danger to himself, at the end of the day.

Owen holds back from the first few tackles, dropping into the back field and letting Strets cover for him in the defensive line. He’ll make a hit when he absolutely has to, but not yet. His plan’s working well until one of the London Welsh players decides to take the initiative and chip the ball through the Sarries line.

One of their wingers comes haring after it, scooping the ball up without breaking his stride, and Owen squares his shoulders. He’s going to have to make this tackle, or they’re going to concede a try to _London Welsh_. He’d take a concussion over that, any day.

Resisting the urge to close his eyes, he positions himself in front of the winger. He crouches, extends his arms, wraps around the player’s legs, drives with his own, and – they both crash to the ground, and Saracens turn the ball over at the ensuring ruck.

 _Thank fuck_.

He gets to his feet feeling more than a little shaky, and Alex steps up to take the clearing kick with a quick nod. Again, it’s his boys – they might not say anything, but they know when something’s not right and they try to help.

He jogs down to the lineout, slotting into the ten channel. _It’s going to be okay_ , he tells himself, in what seems to be his mantra. It’s only London Welsh.

In the end, it’s more than okay. They absolutely thump them, 78-7, with Owen kicking ten (ten!) conversions and a penalty. He misses one, but it’s a little windy. It’s fine – not even Mark has the heart to mention it afterwards. 78-7, in the final game before Christmas, and their first win in the Premiership for far too long. It’s a good day, all things considered.

After that, it feels like one good thing after another – Andy’s taking his mum and the girls and Gabe on holiday for a few days over the Christmas break, so he’s spared the torture of a visit home. George is finally free, and Elliot’s managed to find a couple of days off to come down. With Georgie still away on her break, Owen feels no shame in upping sticks for a few days and moving back in with Jamie and the lads for a while.

Seeing all his boys together – not his Saracens lads, but the guys he really trusts and loves – brings a lump to his throat when he walks in the door. “Hiya, Faz,” Elliot says, standing up for a hug, followed by Jamie.

“Alright, mate?” he asks, rubbing his hands up and down Elliot’s back a little. “Nice try the other day.”

“Wasn’t it just,” Elliot grins at him. “Not a patch on your lads’ performance, obviously, but still…”

Owen shrugs, hits him on the arm. “We can’t all be that good, mate, sorry.”

There’s a cough from the sofa, and Owen turns to look. “Do I need to remind you of who actually won a trophy this year?” George is sat next to Jamie, who’s smirking, legs and arms crossed, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, sorry,” Owen says. When it becomes clear that George isn’t going to move, he crosses the room and sinks down next to his friend. “Well done, love.” To complete the bit, he picks up George’s hand and kisses the back of it.

George merely smiles, apparently satisfied, though Jamie frowns from behind him. “How’s Georgie, by the way?” he asks pointedly.

Owen bites his lip. “We’re actually on a break at the moment, which is why I’m round here instead of with her.”

“Oh, so that’s alright then,” Jamie says, folding his arms. Elliot looks like he wants to say something, but it’s too tense for him to intervene. George seems equally uncomfortable, caught in the middle of the two of them.

“Mate, it was her idea, okay? And it’s not like me and George are shagging, is it?” George turns pink, and he feels bad for making it more awkward. Two of the guys in the room have split up with each other on a misunderstanding, and he can only be increasing the tension.

Jamie huffs. “Whatever. I’m going to get a mince pie – anyone want one?” Elliot and George both murmur their agreement, and Owen’s let off the hook momentarily.

The second Jamie’s out of the room, Owen turns to look pleadingly at George and Elliot. “What did I do?” He was just making a joke, and George – the butt of the joke – didn’t seem to mind too much, so what’s Jamie got a bee in his bonnet about?

“Dunno, mate,” Elliot sighs. “This isn’t a me thing, either, I promise. There wasn’t any cheating with us, just a hideous lack of communication.”

Owen picks at his nails. “If you say so. I’m not trying to cheat on Georgie – I wouldn’t. I think she trusts me, so there’s no reason Jamie shouldn’t. Anyway, he’s not my mum.”

George pokes his arm. “Maybe that’s what you think, but he was the main one checking in on you apart from Georgie when you went blank on all of us last year. You might not remember it, but he was basically a surrogate parent.”

“I don’t need an extra parent,” Owen complains. “Andy’s bad enough as it is – I don’t need someone else trying to fill his shoes.” He’s about to continue when Elliot coughs, looking significantly towards the door.

He turns, already half-knowing what he’s going to see, and – yep. Jamie’s stood there, a mince pie in one shaking hand. “You know what, Faz,” Jamie snaps, though there’s a definite catch in his voice, “next time you stop talking to us, I’ll just let you go. I wasn’t trying to be Andy – _I was trying to be a decent friend._ ” His voice is wobbly when he speaks again. “But if that’s not what you want, then fine. Fuck you.”

He turns on his heel and leaves the room. A couple of seconds later, footsteps crash up the stairs.

Owen groans, tugging on his hair. “I screwed that one up, didn’t I?” he says, not daring to make eye contact with Elliot and George.

“Yeah, you did, you twat,” George says, but it’s fonder than how Jamie had said it. “Leave him be for a minute, and then go and talk to him. Tell him you didn’t mean it – unless you did, and then keep your mouth shut.”

Owen slumps to the side, letting his head rest on George’s shoulder. “Any words of advice, resident Jamie whisperer?” he asks Elliot.

He shrugs, a sad smile on his face. “Mate, if I knew what he was thinking, we’d still be dating. Just – yeah, what Fordy said, basically. Don’t grovel too much, because he knows you’re not like that. Have a rational conversation about it. You’re both adults, after all.”

“Fine,” he says. It’s easier for him to switch into full-on bowing and scraping than actually talking honestly, for some reason, but he’ll give it a go. Not yet, though. It’s only been two minutes, and Jamie had looked pissed enough to need longer to calm down.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, each of them looking in a different direction, Elliot and George start talking about some gay club they’re planning on visiting. Even though he’s technically part of this group now, Owen still doesn’t feel included. He’s never had a gay experience – kissing George’s hand just then was about as far as he’d got – so he’s only made more awkward.

He leaves his friends to it once they’ve moved on to discussing some book he’s never heard of, standing up and preparing to go to his doom (otherwise known as talking to Jamie). George squeezes his shoulder as he goes, and Elliot gives him an encouraging smile. “Good luck, mate,” Elliot says, and Owen nods in acknowledgement. He has a feeling that he’s going to need it.

Owen tramps up the stairs, focusing on breathing in and out with every other step. Whatever Jamie’s upset about, he’s pretty sure it’s not actually him. One of Mick’s biggest lessons for him, that – if someone’s lashing out, it’s probably not Owen himself that’s the issue. He’s just providing a target, so it’s not necessarily all his fault.

(The thing is – that logic might apply with Andy, but Jamie’s much more reasonable. He could be pissed off by Owen’s behaviour and nothing else, and with good reason.)

“Jamie, mate,” he says softly, knocking at the closed bedroom door, “can I come in? I want to talk.”

A grunt comes from inside, so he takes it as permission and goes in. Jamie’s curled up in a ball on the bed, the only light emanating from the bedside lamp. Owen thinks about sitting on the end of the bed, but wouldn’t that be too close for an awkward apology? Staying by the door makes him feel like a butler, and sitting on the floor like a child.

Still, in the absence of any better options or instruction from Jamie, he sits cross-legged on the floor, a few careful metres away from his friend. The low murmur of Elliot and George’s conversation is coming up through the floorboards, only emphasising the uncomfortable silence upstairs.

Owen waits, but there’s nothing from Jamie. He’s meant to let Jamie guide the conversation, he’s pretty sure. He chews on his lip. Jamie’s facing away from him, so he’s got no idea how his presence is being taken. It must have been a couple of minutes by now, so if Jamie’s not going to say anything-

“Mate, I’m sorry.” The words stick in his throat. “Like, for making you think I’d cheat on Georgie, and for being so distant for so long, and saying I didn’t want you to check in with me. I’m really grateful you did, even if I didn’t make you feel that way at the time.”

Jamie huffs and rolls over. Despite the low light, it’s easy to see that his eyes are red-rimmed and his cheeks are wet. “Alright, Faz, I get it. You’re a decent bloke. Now, go away and leave me to be miserable in peace.”

Owen shuffles a little closer, still wary of breaking Jamie’s bubble. “I’m not apologising for me, mate. I wanted to make sure you were okay, like you did with me.”

Jamie sighs, props himself up on one elbow. “What, you want me to spill everything? Pretend you’re Mick?”

Owen smiles a little. “I couldn’t be Mick – hair’s the wrong colour, and I don’t have that notebook he’s always got.”

“He does that to you as well?” Jamie asks, looking slightly happier. “This thing?” He sits up and crosses his legs, fingers propping up his chin like Sherlock Holmes.

“Mate, all the time,” Owen says with a grin. “Like he can read my mind or some shit like that.” He pauses. “But I’m not Mick, and I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but I’d like to know – if you’ll tell me – because we’re friends. No surrogate parent bullshit, just a normal thing to do for your friends.”

Jamie leans back against the headboard, tugs at a stray lock of hair over his ear. “Okay, okay, you’ve convinced me.”

“I’ve got a mental notebook ready,” Owen promises, to settle them both. A tight, tense smile flashes across Jamie’s face, so he assumes it’s appreciated.

His friend sighs, eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance. “Fine. If we’re doing this Mick-style, you shut up and let me talk, yeah? I’ll let you know when questions are allowed.”

Owen nods. He doesn’t want to put Jamie off, and if those are the boundaries he wants to set, then he’s going to abide by them.

“So I was pissed off when you started – flirting, for want of a better word, with George. I’m pretty sure he still likes you, in the first place, so it’s a dick move and I wanted to distract him. But then, it was probably me being jealous because you get to be with who you want as well as flirting with one of your closest friends, because you’re, like, fit and conventionally attractive and – not me, essentially.”

There’s a definite tremble in his voice now, and Owen tries not to look at Jamie too obviously. He wants to ask questions already – this must be why Mick has the notebook – but he’s trying to respect Jamie’s boundaries.

“And then I fuck up getting that across to you, with my two other best friends watching, and I had to go and hide. I was already feeling like shit, and eating was never going to help that, but I did it anyway. Then when I came back in, you were talking about me like I was an annoyance hanging around – like Andy, when you know that’s the furthest thing from what I was trying to do.”

Owen bites his lip. it’s true, and maybe he had been trying to show off to the others by complaining about things to look cool, like a stupid teenager – although why that would work when all four of them are friends, he doesn’t know.

“So I was already all emotional and embarrassed and anxious, and then I had to go off at you and dig an even deeper hole. I feel like I did mean most of what I said, though I wouldn’t have put it like that in a calmer conversation. Treat others how you want to be treated, that kind of thing – I looked out for you for ages with nothing in response, and I was hoping you’d do the same for me when you saw I wasn’t doing too well.

“But you didn’t, and I understand part of that wasn’t your fault, and then coming in to hear you complaining about me to the others made it feel like there was no point to it, or I was being taken for granted, and nobody actually cared enough to pay attention to me and see if I was okay.”

He heaves out a long sigh. “Look, mate, I get you were depressed for a long time, and that’s fine, but afterwards, more recently, you could’ve just asked if things were alright. Since me and El broke up, nobody’s really asked me that apart from my mum. And – yeah. Maybe I’m not doing okay, and it would have been nice for someone other than Mick to notice without me having to tell them.”

He looks over at Owen, who startles back into himself. “You can ask questions now, if you want. Just – don’t go spreading this around, please. I’d get the shit ripped out of me if it did.”

Owen’s heart aches at that, like it wasn’t already. “Fuck, mate, I would never. You kept secrets for me – still do – so I’ll do the same for you. Not even with those two, right?” he checks, pointing at the floor.

Jamie shakes his head. “Half of it’s to do with Elliot, not that it’s his fault, but yeah, if you wouldn’t mind. It would just make it awkward, and I don’t want to start telling him about it when I haven’t got it sorted in my own head first.”

“Fine by me,” Owen says, voice rough and scratchy. “But, just to check – you are talking to Mick about this, yes?”

Jamie rolls his eyes. “I’ve being doing this for ages, mate, of course I am. Thanks for asking, but I do know what I’m doing on that front.”

Owen shrugs. “You know as well as I do that just because someone should be talking to a therapist, doesn’t mean they always do.”

“Fair,” Jamie allows. “Anyway, fire away with the questions. You’ve got that Mick look already – could be a good career for you, post-retirement.”

He shudders. “Fuck no. Don’t you have to, like, know what you’re doing yourself before you can tell anyone else what to do?” Jamie smirks, and perhaps this conversation won’t be too hard.

“So…” He doesn’t really know where to start, about five different topics calling for his attention, little neon headings in his mind.

 _Elliot_ is obviously too big a category to go into now, especially with the man himself about ten feet below them. The little hints at _eating_ and _body image_ hit a little too close to home for Owen, and he doesn’t want to start a conversation he can’t finish without getting upset himself. Maybe the allusion to _friendship_ and _caring_ can be the point from which they kick off, and then see where the conversation goes from there.

“So, like,” Owen tries again, “you said some stuff about wanting people to notice that you weren’t okay. How would you like me to try and do that? I don’t want to trample all over you and make it worse.”

Jamie frowns at him, though it’s mostly fond. “I’d appreciate the effort, Faz, no matter how cack-handed you were about it.”

From there, it’s easier to talk – more openly than they have for a while, and possibly ever. Owen feels slightly guilty for leaving Elliot and George to themselves for the whole evening, but Jamie is more important right now. The other two might – and probably do, to be honest – have their own mental issues and hang-ups, but they’re not acting out and bursting into tears because of them. Jamie is his priority tonight.

It’s hard to hear about Jamie’s struggles, about how lonely he’d been after he and Elliot broke up, and how suddenly nobody seemed to care enough to chat on a regular basis. The worst part for Owen, though, is how Jamie’s been comparing the two of them in terms of their bodies for years, jealous of Owen’s slimmer build through the unhealthy starvation period and even now, when Owen himself is working to accept his lost abs.

Telling Jamie that it’s necessary for his job to look that way, for both of them, isn’t going to help, so he just hugs Jamie and lets him spill his feelings everywhere. There’s a reason why they both go to Mick to deal with their most unpleasant and ugly feelings, but this helps smooth off a few of the roughest edges.

The two of them emerge from the darkened bedroom into the brightly-lit living room tentatively, Owen happy to let Jamie follow behind him. He’s the one that needs it most, after all.

“You two alright?” George asks, eyebrows raised. It has been two hours, admittedly, but he and Jamie had a lot to talk through.

“I think so,” Owen says. “Jamie?”

“Yeah,” Jamie adds, when George and Elliot’s attention shifts to him. “Doing better now.”

George pats the sofa between him and Elliot. “Come and sit down, lads. We’ve been all lonely without you two.”

“Plenty of room here, buddy,” Elliot says, taking Jamie’s hand and pulling him down to sit between him and George. Owen wedges himself under George’s thigh and half on the arm of the sofa, but they make it work.

(He might not last long in this position, but it’s the principle of the thing. Togetherness, that sort of soppy shit.)

It’s silent for a minute, while Owen tries and fails not to fixate on the warmth of George’s leg bleeding through the layers of fabric separating them onto his own skin. Either Jamie is genuinely working on getting over Elliot or he must be going through a similar experience – Owen is distinctly uncomfortable after only a few minutes with just how close they are pressed together, and he doesn’t even like George in that way.

“I missed you guys,” Elliot murmurs, “if we’re being honest. The group chat is all well and good, but it’s not the same.”

“You could always join Sarries,” Owen points out. “You come to Saracens, Georgie goes to the Broncos – don’t make that face, mate, they’re not that bad – and we would all be a lot closer.”

Elliot just sighs. “I would if I could, but my contract doesn’t have a get-out clause for another few years. There’s not space for another back with you lot, and I doubt they’d want me if there was.”

Jamie smacks him, the sound echoing not inconsiderably. “Not with that attitude. Come on, you’re great. Give it a year, and I bet you’ll be playing for England.”

“In December? I hope not.”

“Whatever, you nitwit. If not the World Cup, then the 2016 Six Nations,” Jamie says confidently.

“What do you bet?” Elliot says, intrigued.

“Not much, because I think it’s going to happen,” Jamie says, kicking him hard enough that the impact jostles all four of them, tightly packed onto the sofa. “And you shouldn’t be betting against yourself, love – shit, sorry. I know I said I was going to stop doing that.”

Before it has time to get awkward, George jumps in. “I reckon you’re just being influenced by me and Faz, mate. Isn’t that right, love?”

“Of course, our kid,” Owen says, eager to brush over the tension. “Us northerners have clearly been having a good effect on you.”

“I wouldn’t call that a good impact,” Elliot says lightly, though he glances at Jamie a little nervously. “It’s a bit – I don’t know, familiar?”

“You don’t think we’re family?” George asks with a pout. “Jamie does, don’t you, flower?”

“Yes, dear,” Jamie says, rolling his eyes. “That’s why I agreed to cook Christmas dinner for you lot, remember?”

“And we’re all very grateful, pet,” Owen says, warming to the theme. His mum doesn’t use northern terms of affection very much – Andy doesn’t use terms of affection of any kind, regardless of origin – so he’s scraping the bottom of the barrel somewhat.

George yawns, stretching his arms out to the side and wrapping one each around Owen and Jamie. “Anyway, I love you all, whether or not you talk properly or you’re making lunch tomorrow. You’re all great.”

“Same,” Elliot says, more stilted than George but still genuine. Owen settles for a grunt. He agrees with the sentiment, obviously, but throwing around words like _love_ seems a bit presumptuous. It’s not the done thing in the Farrell household, and while he would freely admit that these guys are his best friends, saying that he loves them is uncomfortable, like something’s not quite sitting right with him – like having a stone in his shoe, or laces that are too thick.

“Love you boys,” Jamie says quietly, before perking up. “Now – I hate to dredge up the surrogate parent thing, but could we possibly go to bed? There’s only four of us, but that’s a lot of food to prep.”

“Alright, dad,” George says, ruffling Jamie’s hair. “Come on, Faz, we need to get me the good bed before El nicks it.”

“I would never!” Elliot says, pressing a hand to his chest, mock-scandalised. “And, for the record – can Jamie please not be my dad? It’s too weird.”

“Fine,” George says dismissively, yanking Owen to his feet.

(Owen feels like he’s surrendered to the flow of the conversation now, but he doesn’t mind it too much.)

“Me and Owen are obviously the kids,” George decides, not letting go of Owen’s hand before he has time to get awkward about it. “Jamie adopted us as his gay children, so you two are either the amicably divorced couple or you’re co-parenting.”

“Why not both?” Elliot suggests – again with the sideways glances at Jamie, Owen notices. “We’ll ignore the part where I’m younger than my child, though.”

Jamie stands up too, hands resting on his hips. “Wasn’t that, like, a gay thing before civil partnerships were created? Maybe it was just in the US, but it was definitely a thing for one guy to adopt his partner so they were recognised under the law.”

Elliot pulls a face. “No offence, Faz, but I wouldn’t.”

Owen screws his face up into a matching expression of distaste. “Yeah, neither, mate. I’d rather get with George than you.”

“We’re adoptive siblings, so it’s fine,” George says, half-smiling. “ _Anyway_ – bedtime for us kids. See you in the morning, dad and not-dad.”

“Night night,” Jamie says with a wave. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite!”

Owen doesn’t hear whatever Elliot says in response because he’s too busy not tripping over his own feet as George tows him up the stairs.

“Didn’t you put your stuff on your bed earlier?” he asks. It would be strange for George not to put his belongings away in the right place.

George flicks on the light in the spare bedroom and flops onto his bed. “Yeah, but I wanted to give those two some alone time.”

“Why?” If anything, Owen would be trying to do the opposite, after what Jamie told him earlier.

“You can’t tell either of them I told you,” George says, rolling onto his stomach and resting his chin on his hands, “but Elliot’s been thinking about asking Jamie if he wants to get back together.”

“Oh, wow. Is he doing it now? Does he think it’s going to work out?”

George shrugs. “Mate, he must think there’s a chance. They’ve both been all miserable about it, for literal _months_ , so I wouldn’t mind them being happy together again.”

“Would be nice to have one set of parents in a functional relationship,” Owen muses. “I think I’m going to go to bed now, so I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Bright and late,” George agrees, sitting up and stripping off his shirt to change into his pyjamas. “Sweet dreams, love.”

“You too,” Owen says as he backs out of the door and along the landing to his old room. It’s going to be hard not to have sweet dreams after a glimpse of George shirtless, Jesus Christ.

(He’s so overwhelmed by it that he doesn’t even have time to compare his own body with the split-second memory of George’s before he falls asleep.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr!](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com)


	41. Chapter 41

The next morning, as George had promised, they get up bright and late. It’s nice to be back in his old room at Jamie’s, Owen reflects as he lies in bed and stares at the ceiling. It gives him the unnerving feeling of having travelled two years into the past – and he wouldn’t mind that, to be perfectly honest – but the sound of pans clanking in the kitchen and his friends talking is enough to entice him out from under the covers.

“Morning, son,” Jamie grins as Owen slopes into the room. “Coffee’s already on the table.”

Owen drops into his usual chair, bringing the cup to his lips with a pleased sigh. He could get used to this.

“Ayup, Faz!” Elliot comes through from the back room with a bowlful of potatoes and a beaming smile, handing the potatoes off to Jamie. “Good sleep?”

He grunts. “Alright, yeah.”

Elliot flicks him on the forehead as he goes past. “I’d forgotten how much of a neanderthal you are in the morning, mate. It’s half nine, for God’s sake!”

“Do you see George anywhere?” he points out. Throwing his friend under the bus isn’t cool, but he’s not around to hear it.

(Hopefully, anyway – he should have learned his lesson from last night.)

“He’s in the shower,” Jamie says, starting to peel the potatoes. “Already been for a run, so you can’t use him as an excuse.”

Owen grinds his teeth. _Typical._ The one time he sleeps in late, everyone else shows him up by getting up earlier and even working out, like they aren’t all professional rugby players on their Christmas break.

“Need a hand with anything else, or are you alright?” Elliot asks. Ignoring Owen’s grumpiness is the best way to go, even he can acknowledge.

“I think I’m good for now, love. Just got to get the potatoes in the oven, and then it’ll be a few hours before anything else wants doing.”

Owen seriously hopes that Elliot managed to talk to Jamie last night, because otherwise the looks they’re giving each other are a recipe for disaster – one even worse than his and Jamie’s argument the previous evening. On the other hand, it’s nice that they feel able to act like that around him; _some people_ would put an end to their fond glances by their mere presence, and Owen’s glad he’s not one of them anymore.

He focuses on finishing his coffee, both to let his brain fully come online and to give the other two some privacy. He desperately wants to ask what the situation is, but it’s too sensitive for him to go blundering in and risk screwing everything up. Maybe George would manage it, with his tact for all things gay-related, but Owen does not have the same skillset.

Professionally, they’re similar, but on a personal level they’re miles apart. It must come from moving around so much and having to make new friends and integrate with new teams every couple of years, he decides, draining the cup and getting up to wash it. He hasn’t needed to make an entirely new set of friends since he was fourteen and meeting the Sarries lads for the first time.

Jamie and Elliot have gone through to the living room while he was making his breakfast, so he’s alone when George comes in, spiked-up hair clear evidence of his shower. “Alright?” he asks between mouthfuls of cereal.

“Yeah,” George says, taking out a glass and filling it with water. “Bloody cold out there, but it was good to get a run in.”

“Sure it was,” Owen says. It’s fine, he tells himself. George is coming to the end of his offseason so he has to ramp his training up, while Owen himself is recovering from a match at the weekend. They’re in different places by necessity, and that’s okay.

“It was, actually.” George sits down opposite him. A little redness is colouring his cheeks – presumably left over from the chill winter air outside. “I went home first to get Leo, and then we did a four-mile loop – you know the one, round by the river. Took him home again, then came back. I’m absolutely knackered now, but it’s Christmas. I can have a break for the rest of the day.”

 _Please do_ , Owen thinks fiercely. Aside from the thorny issue of someone exercising that isn’t him (he’s not being outworked, because George isn’t a competitor, honestly), he doesn’t want to run the risk of seeing George half-naked again. The brief glimpse he got last night before bed is burned onto his retinas, and his mind doesn’t need any more fuel for his dreams.

George cracks his knuckles, pulling him from his thoughts. “Have you seen the other two yet?”

“For a couple of minutes. They’re in the other room now.”

George leans closer over the table. “Do you know – have they talked?”

Owen finishes his mouthful before speaking. “I’m not sure. Jamie was still calling El ‘love’, but that’s no different from usual. They weren’t being obvious about it if they had.”

George sighs, rolls his eyes. “Great. I bloody hope they don’t make this uncomfortable, because we’ve all got to live with the consequences.”

“I mean, it was already pretty not fun without Elliot trying to get them back together.” They’re only all going to be together in this house for another eight hours maximum, but their virtual connection will be strained if Jamie and Elliot decide it’s not going to work between them, or break up again with less friendly feelings.

George tips his head in agreement. “Fair. If you’re almost done with that, we can go through and subtly – subtly! – ask what the situation is with them.” At Owen’s wide eyes, he adds, “Look, I’m not doing it by myself. I need backup if it’s bad news.”

Owen obligingly shovels down the last two spoonfuls of cereal and drains the milk, then stands up next to George. “It’s going to be fine,” he murmurs. If the others hear them hyping themselves up like this, they’ll never hear the end of it. “If it gets weird, we just leg it. Jamie’ll never be able to catch us, and he’s the one we need to worry about.”

George curls his hand around Owen’s wrist briefly. “Okay. I trust your judgement, pet.”

Owen grins at him, surprised by how much the words mean. “As you should, flower. Now – you ready?”

“Might as well get it over with,” George says brightly. He tightens his grip on Owen’s arm momentarily, then lets go.

(Owen’s surprised by how much he misses it.)

He leads George through to the living room, in almost a carbon copy of how he’d gone in with Jamie a few hours before – except this time, with none of the tension from those already in there. That was all for Owen and George now.

“You lads okay?” Elliot asks. He and Jamie are sitting close together on the sofa, Owen sees immediately, one of Elliot’s feet hooked over Jamie’s. “Sounded like quite a serious conversation you were having.”

George shrugs, flumps down next to Owen – actually, a lot closer than he was expecting. If this is some sort of mirroring tactic, to make Elliot and Jamie feel more comfortable, then he’s fine with it. If not – he wants to ask George why he’s come over all cold all of a sudden and apparently needs to huddle to share body heat.

“Yeah, we were just wondering whether you guys had had your talk yet,” George says. Owen pokes at his thigh. If this is George’s idea of subtlety, then he’s going to have to handle any sensitive conversations going forward.

“Not quite yet,” Elliot says, biting his lip. “I was building up to it.”

Owen digs his hand further into George’s muscle, earning himself a slap on the wrist for his trouble. This is what he was worried about – ruining whatever groundwork Elliot had been doing in favour of finding out what was going on as soon as possible.

Jamie’s on the verge of asking what’s going on, when Owen’s phone pings. It’s a different noise to his usual text or email notification so he gets it out of his pocket, everyone’s eyes drawn to him.

_Remember to take antidepressants!!!_

The reminder must have gone off for the first time while he was still asleep, and he has his phone set up so it only starts making noises after a certain amount of time has elapsed. In this case, it’s been two hours. Not horrific, but he’d rather take the tablet sooner rather than later. He’s probably got them on the sink next to his toothbrush – _crap._

It’s okay because he’s only a couple of miles away from his house and the sink with the antidepressants on, but it’s also embarrassing to have to duck out for twenty minutes because he’s done something so stupid as forgetting the medication he’s been taking for the last six months.

“Everything okay, Faz?” Jamie asks. He’s distracted him, at least – Elliot should be relieved.

“Um, yeah. I just need to go home for a bit.” Saying why is just a bit too awkward, even in the spirit of newfound honesty and openness, etc etc.

George rests his hand on his knee. “Mate, do you want me to come with?” He turns his head so Elliot and Jamie can’t see from where they’re sat on the other sofa, and widens his eyes like _say yes, let them talk_.

“Sure,” Owen says. It can’t hurt, and George presses his thumb into Owen’s leg in thanks. “It won’t take long, I just – have a thing to do quickly that I forgot about.”

“Okay,” Jamie says. Elliot’s back to fiddling with the zip on his hoodie. “Text me when you get there?”

“Yes, dad,” Owen says, rolling his eyes. “I haven’t forgotten that.”

“We’ll see you soon,” George says to break the deadlock. “Come on, love.” He tugs Owen to his feet and out into the hall. “Everything’s actually okay, though?” he asks in a low voice. “I don’t want to get in the way if you don’t want me there.”

“No, it’s fine,” Owen says as he pulls on his shoes, avoiding eye contact. “I just – I need to take my antidepressants, and I didn’t bring them with me.”

“Oh, right,” George says. He’s remarkably relaxed about it – Owen can’t remember whether he’d told him about the medication before, but that’s by the by now. “I can stay in the car, if you’d prefer. I wanted to give those two a bit more space first.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Owen mutters, before standing up, car keys in his hand. “See you two in a bit!” he calls through, then unlocks the door. George walks with him to the car, and gets in the passenger seat.

“You know what this is like,” George says, staring out the window as Owen reverses out of the drive. “When you picked me up from the station after my first few months in Bradford. My mum pretended to be angry, but she loved it really.”

Owen smiles, choosing to look at the road instead of his friend. “It was cute. I never knew why you asked me to do it instead of waiting for Joe to bring you home with the rest of your stuff, but it was nice.”

He can see George shoot him a look in his peripheral vision, but he doesn’t call him out on it. “Joe knowing would have spoiled the surprise,” George says, a few seconds too late. “I had to tell Jacob in case he thought it was a bad idea, but Joe’s too responsible – he would have told my parents straight away.”

Owen snickers. “What, so you picked me as the option least likely to tell your parents?”

“I seem to remember it was you who offered, actually,” George says sniffily, though he’s grinning. “But yeah. It’s a nice memory. I’m glad we did it.”

“Like all the times at the park,” Owen says, now they’re being honest with each other. “Sometimes I drive by there and think about the kicking stuff, or with Leo, or having a chat under the trees. It’s good. It’s what I needed at the time.”

“Anything you could to get out of the house, right?” George says casually. He’s looking out the window again, taking the pressure off. Owen’s grateful for it.

“Basically, yeah. I did enjoy it for what it was, of course, but not hanging around in the house when I didn’t have to was good too.”

It feels like he’s baring his soul to George, saying the quiet parts out loud. They both knew what was going on when they were teenagers – it was hard to miss – but acknowledging it as adults feels more important, almost.

He’s half-ready to say more, to unload some other stuff that he’s never told anyone other than Mick and his confidentiality agreement. The words are on the tip of his tongue, but he’s pulling into his drive on autopilot before he has time.

“I’ll just – go and do it,” he says, not knowing how to make a smooth transition. Staying out of the house during his teenage years and his adult depression – there’s a link there that could be made without much effort, but it’s also Christmas and they’re supposed to be on holiday. _Not right now_ , he decides, and jogs up the path to his front door.

It’s easy enough to slip back into the routine, going upstairs and filling a cup of water, before taking out the strip of pills and popping one out. He takes a second to catch his breath, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His hair’s a little greasy, but nothing horrific, or that can be fixed in the next two minutes.

Owen swallows down the tablet with practised ease. It’s absolutely the placebo effect, but it settles something in his stomach to know he’s taken the medication. He wasn’t feeling particularly bad without it; it’s more the comfort of the routine and the ritual. Forgetting to take the packet of tablets with him to Jamie’s was a mistake, but it’s a fixable one. He’ll be back home by tonight anyway, so it’s fine.

Pausing for a moment to fix his hair, Owen smiles at himself in the mirror. He’s having a good day, spending time with his friends. It’s going to be a good Christmas. He’s going to enjoy Jamie’s Christmas lunch without feeling guilty about it. He’s happy. It’s going to be a good day.

Suitably reassured, he hurries back down the stairs to where George is waiting in the car. “Sorry about that,” he says, closing the door and strapping himself in. “Lost track of time a bit.”

“Not a problem,” George says with a smile. “I was enjoying looking around – I don’t think I’ve been to this area enough to know it properly.”

If Owen weren’t in such a resiliently positive mood, he’d take it as a subtle dig, but he’s happy today. He’ll just make sure to invite George round more while he’s staying with his parents, that’s all.

They drive back to Jamie’s in silence, the festive burbling of the radio the only sound over the engine. They’ve been out for twenty minutes – based on last night, Owen wouldn’t say that’s long enough for a meaningful heart-to-heart conversation, but then Elliot and Jamie aren’t starting from scratch. They already have a deep understanding of each other and the topic at hand, which might speed things along.

“I’ll text Elliot,” George says, seemingly thinking along the same lines. Owen slows the car a little, dropping the speed by a few miles per hour. Having a car sitting idling outside won’t help if they’re in the midst of that kind of angsty talk.

George taps his fingers against the dashboard for a few moments before his phone buzzes, “He says they’re done – Jamie wants time to think about it, basically, so we’re fine to come back now as long as we don’t make a big thing about it.”

“No more jokes about divorced parents, then?” Owen asks, smiling slightly. “Shame – I was just getting into that.”

“Alright, pet,” George says. “You were just getting into it, and I’m sure you can just get out of it again.”

Owen grins at his mock-stern voice, and they lapse back into a comfortable silence. It’s only another few minutes before they arrive, so it’s easy enough for him to process the news. It’s like he’d said to George – he’s barely processed the family jokes and the teasing use of pet names, and now they’re reverting to type. Shouldn’t be too hard – he has willpower enough for this situation and then some – but it feels a bit weird to have such an abrupt turnaround.

Still, that’s what happens when they’re all in one place, instead of texting around four different schedules (more like three and a half, if he thinks about it, given how much time he and Jamie spend at the club). Things move a lot faster – a conversation takes ten minutes instead of two hours. It’s a strange if welcome change.

He turns the car off, stretching his legs before getting out. His knee is hurting more than usual, probably due to the cold weather. It’s not that painful, just stiff. He can work round it.

“Ready to face the music?” George says, pulling a face.

Owen grimaces back. “I’m sure they’ll be fine. They’re good lads – they won’t want to make it awkward for us.”

He’s oddly nervous, walking up to the front door. It won’t be weird; if Jamie’s taking some time to think about it, then they should be acting the same as before, right? They’d seemed fine with each other before he’d left, so hopefully they will be just as relaxed now.

“Honey, I’m home!” George yells as they go in. He hadn’t realised how cold it had been outside, but it’s nice to be able to take his coat off without danger of hypothermia.

“In the kitchen,” Elliot calls back, and that has to be a good sign. Jamie’s obviously in the kitchen too as head chef, so Elliot hasn’t had to seek refuge in his room upstairs.

Owen peels off his scarf as he goes through to the kitchen. “Smells good, mate.”

Jamie grins at him from where he’s standing over some bubbling pans. “Thanks, son – and no thanks to El over there. He almost murdered my beautiful potatoes.”

Elliot smiles sheepishly, sat at the table. “That’s why I’ve been relegated to gravy duty,” he says, holding up a small jug and a spoon. “Can’t mess that up, apparently.”

Jamie tsks at him. “Well, I thought that about _turning the oven off_ , but you still managed to turn it up instead of off.”

Owen grins. Nothing seems uncomfortable, or wrong, or different between the two of them since he and George left – in fact, they appear even more in sync than usual with their easy flow of banter. He still has to be careful around them to not reference any kind of relationships or things that could throw them off, but it’s worth it to see them happier with each other again.

He startles as George appears behind him, hooking his chin over his shoulder. “Turkey looks so nice, Jinx,” he says, wrapping his arms around Owen’s waist briefly before letting go and joining Elliot at the table.

“Should be done in – ten minutes, maybe? El, you can set the table if you want,” Jamie answers.

“As long as I don’t drop the glasses, I know,” Elliot adds, long-suffering. He’s smiling, though, like a husband so berated by his wife over the years that he’s grown used to (and even fond of) it. It’s sweet. Owen would like that himself someday.

(The only bad part is – he can’t see it happening with Georgie, for whatever reason. Maybe it’s because they’re on a break, or because he’s with his friends instead of his girlfriend, but he can’t picture the two of them bickering in thirty years’ time like Elliot and Jamie do.)

He moves to stand by the radiator to make space for Elliot to get out all the plates and glasses and cutlery which Jamie has stashed around the kitchen. Owen’s never seen half of it before, so he’s impressed Elliot knows where it all is without having lived in the house for a while.

George joins him at the radiator, clearly having been pushed out by Elliot’s preparations as well. Owen holds his arm out to let George snuggle into his side – he’s still a little chilled, despite the heating and all the layers he has on – and George accepts with a small smile.

He’s so wrapped up in the warmth of George’s body pressed against his own and the smell of his hair – it’s unusual enough to distract him from the other Christmassy smells floating around the kitchen – that he effectively zones out until Jamie’s tapping his glass with a fork. “Dinner’s ready, children!”

“Grub’s up, as they’d say up north,” Elliot adds with a grin. Owen rolls his eyes and detaches himself from George. It would be harder without the incentive of a full Christmas dinner waiting for him, that’s all he has to say about it.

“I don’t think they would, but thanks anyway,” George says, taking his seat next to Owen. “Jamie, this is incredible.”

Jamie shrugs. “You’re welcome. I used to help my mum with it back in the day, but I haven’t really had a reason to do a proper one for a while.”

“Well, we really appreciate it,” Elliot says, and Owen has a sneaking suspicion that they’re holding hands under the table. “George – wine? We’ve got a few options, if that’s not to your taste.”

Elliot works his way round with the drinks, and then it’s finally time to eat. Owen’s been eyeing the pigs in blankets for a while, and he takes a couple more roast potatoes than he perhaps needs. He’s musing over whether to put some back when Jamie kicks him under the table and shakes his head slightly. _It’s Christmas_ , he mouths, and that’s all he needs to stick to his guns.

It’s Christmas, and it’s justification enough to relax for a couple of days. None of these guys are going to criticise him for eating more than strictly necessary – in fact, George has gone for even more roast potatoes than Owen himself.

“Fucking insane, love,” Elliot groans around the roast potatoes he has shoved in his mouth. Suddenly, Owen’s glad he didn’t put the extra two back; he might be facing competition for seconds. But Elliot’s right – they’re actually incredible. It’s going to make his lunch on Christmas Day look pathetic by comparison.

(With nobody other than him in the house, he’s probably going to be having a bacon sandwich or something equally boring. This is essentially Christmas for him, and he’d rather be spending it with these lads than anyone else.)

Jamie keeps topping up their glasses and piling more Brussels sprouts on their plates, and Owen’s more stuffed than the turkey by the end of the main course. “Time for the pudding!” Jamie says brightly, and they all groan simultaneously.

“I don’t want to be rude, mate, but I might actually be sick,” George says, holding his stomach. It’s his own fault – he’s smaller than the rest of them and he ate more than them, so even the training he’s been doing in the morning won’t make up for that.

“We can wait a bit, if you’d rather,” Jamie says, sitting back down again. “It can go in the top of the oven to keep warm, and then we can come back later to finish the meal.”

“Might be a good plan,” Elliot agrees. He’s not quite at the stomach-clutching stage, but he looks close.

“Alright,” Jamie says decisively. How he can stand up that fast, Owen doesn’t know. “I’ve got a couple of Christmas specials recorded, so we can watch one of them before the second half of lunch.”

Owen drags himself out of his chair. It’s a similar feeling to doing weighted pullups – an inexplicable addition of weight to his lower half which makes usually simple movements so much harder. George holds his arms out pitifully, and he pulls him to his feet. “You really went for it, pet,” he says admiringly.

“Yeah, and now I regret it,” George complains. “Tasted bloody incredible, don’t get me wrong, but too much. I don’t have the body mass to eat that much.”

“What stuff have you got for us to watch, then?” Elliot asks, picking up on the strained atmosphere around the other two. “The Doctor Who one isn’t out yet, isn’t it?”

“That’s Christmas Day,” Jamie says, fiddling with the TV remotes. “I might have the one from last year, though, if your memory’s bad enough.”

Owen shrugs. It doesn’t really matter to him – the Farrell Christmas was more something to be endured than enjoyed with certain rituals, and spending time with people he likes is the most important thing.

“Sounds good,” George chimes in when it’s clear that Jamie isn’t going to act without more of a consensus. “So long as it’s not one of the scary ones.”

Owen snorts. “It’s okay, baby. You can hide behind me if you get frightened.”

“Thanks,” George says, prodding his overfilled stomach and provoking a groan out of him. “Knew I could count on you.”

Jamie finally settles on an episode and joins Elliot on the other sofa. They can’t all cram onto one like last night, not without a severe amount of discomfort.

The opening titles play, and Owen relaxes into it. He’s warm and full and cuddled up with George, his other two best friends just across the room. Doctor Who or not, it’s the perfect way to spend an hour or so – especially with pudding to come.

Jamie’s Christmas pudding (complete with flames) is just as good as the rest of the meal, and Owen’s so full afterwards. He’s glad he’s not Elliot, with a couple of hours’ driving to do to be home before dark. He can just get in his car, drop George off, and go home to his own bed within fifteen minutes. High speeds or roundabouts at this level of stuffed – no thanks.

They all linger for as long as feasibly possible after finishing the meal, Elliot and George even volunteering to wash up while Jamie watches from the table and offers helpful criticism on their technique. Owen can’t quite find a place to fit in with the chores, so he sits opposite Jamie and encourages the others. It’s a bit of a copout, but three of them won’t fit around the sink.

Elliot ducks out eventually, with two rounds of hugs and promises to video call soon. It’s bizarre how the departure of one of their little quartet changes the atmosphere so much, but it’s quieter after he’s gone. Owen’s thinking about leaving, and he knows George’s mum wanted him home by teatime.

(He’s not sure how George is going to manage to eat anything, but that’s not his problem.)

George says his goodbyes to Jamie and heads out the car, and Owen’s about to follow when Jamie catches his elbow. “Are you doing anything on actual Christmas?” he asks quietly. “Just, if Georgie’s not around, you could come over and we could have a lowkey thing so we’re not by ourselves.”

Owen’s chest warms. “That would be great. I have literally nothing planned, so yeah. I could come round at ten?”

Jamie nods, pulls him in for one last hug. “Cool. See you then – and try talking to Georgie in the meantime. It might help, you never know.”

He’s not sure if Jamie’s making some kind of allusion to his and Elliot’s own conversation, but he should take his advice regardless. It’s been a week and a half and communication between him and his girlfriend has been minimal, which can never be a good sign even if they are on a break.

“Alright, dad,” he murmurs, pulling back and moving to follow George to the car. “See you in a couple of days.”

“Text when you’re back!” Jamie shouts after him, and Owen does a thumbs up as he walks away. He’s well trained by now; he couldn’t forget if he tried.

He drops George off at his house with a hug and a greeting to Mike and Sally-Anne and Jacob, and then drives on to his empty house alone.

He has to flick on the lights and the heating when he gets in, nobody waiting for him to return, but it’s okay. He’s still warm and happy from the days spent with his best friends, and he’ll be seeing Jamie soon anyway.

For once, he’s happy. Life is good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you thought about this update in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


	42. Chapter 42

He’s virtually a hermit for the next few days, until Jamie texts to remind him to come over on Christmas Day. He goes for a few runs and says hi to his neighbours when they’re leaving their house at the same time as he’s coming back, but that’s the limit of his social interaction.

(Georgie doesn’t reply to his texts. He tries not to worry too much.)

Still, Jamie’s a perfect distraction from all the other stressors in his life. He welcomes Owen in with a beaming smile and a warm hug, accepting his present with a gushing thank you. “It’s not much,” Owen says awkwardly, “just thought you might like it.”

Jamie unwraps the gift right there in the hallway, dropping the wrapping paper and tape on the floor around their feet. “Mate, I love it!” he says, holding the cricket book out in front of him to study the blurb. “This is so cool.”

“You’re welcome,” Owen says, accepts the second hug in as many minutes.

“I’ve got yours in the kitchen, come and get it,” Jamie says. Owen protests that the Christmas lunch was already enough, but Jamie won’t hear a word of it.

He snorts when he opens it – a Leeds jersey signed by George, Kit, and Zak. “Wow, mate, you must have been planning this for a while.”

Jamie shrugs. “It was going to be for your birthday, but I didn’t have my shit together in time, so I got George to do it while he was still up there and then he brought it back down with him.”

“You’re not expecting me to wear it, are you?” Owen says, checking the size on the label. “I might be banned from Wigan.”

Jamie rolls his eyes, “You don’t have to betray any clan loyalties, don’t worry. Do what you want with it – frame it and put it on the wall, something like that.”

He folds the shirt up. It might as well go on the wall – in the spare bedroom, in case George ever wants to stay, as a bit of a joke but also being serious. He’s proud of the little lad, even if he’s still too emotionally constipated to say it to his face.

It doesn’t even occur to him to wonder what Georgie would think – she’d known about his rugby league affinity from the start, and those guys are his mates, near enough. It’ll be in the spare room anyway, not in the hall or the living room wall in pride of place over the mantelpiece.

“Want to watch something?” Jamie asks, sitting down on the sofa. Owen assumes his usual position on the other sofa, lying down like it’s three years ago and they still live together.

“ _Die Hard_?” Owen suggests. It’s a classic, and they’ve watched it together more than a few times. He knows Jamie has the DVD, and that he likes it. It’ll tide them over until lunch, or the pathetic version of it they’re having today.

Jamie nods agreeably and gets up to furtle around in the shelves for it. Owen takes out his phone and sends another text to Georgie quickly, wishing her a happy Christmas. He’s not trying to pressurise her – that’s the last thing he wants – but he needs her to know that he’s thinking about her and checking in. He’s learned from Jamie and the other boys the importance of checking in, even when it might not appear to be needed.

“Subtitles?” Jamie asks, once he’s inserted the disc. “Unless you’ve changed your habits secretly.”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Owen says, touched that Jamie’s remembered. Georgie tended to treat his requests for subtitles as a sweet affectation, when he’d really rather have them on to keep up with the action. Explosions and yelling don’t make for a great listening experience for him, but Georgie never seemed to pick up on that, letting him muddle through the plot without.

The two of them settle in to watch in a comfortable silence. It could be a hundred other nights in the time they’ve known each other, from fourteen to twenty-two. It could be a hundred other films, or days of the year. But it’s Christmas 2014, and Owen would like to think he’s in a better place with himself and with Jamie than he has even been before.

(Maybe he should have given Mick that Christmas card instead of backing out at the last second. It’s still in his kit bag – he could give it to him in the New Year and hope he doesn’t mind.)

It’s with that in mind that he feels confident enough to say, at a moment when Bruce Willis’s shirt is barely hanging on by a thread, “I would.” It’s not as assertive as he would like, but it’s out there. It’s a start.

Jamie twists to look at him, screwing up his face. “You would? Who, him?”

“And you wouldn’t?” Owen retorts. “Mate, he’s fit. I might not have any actual experience with guys, but he could get it.”

Jamie shakes his head. “Fucking hell, Faz. You need to get a life, sharpish. That guy? He’s old enough to be your dad – no offence.”

“None taken,” Owen replies. “But, like – you don’t find him hot? He’s all muscular and sweaty, plus he’s doing all this running around for a good reason. He wants to help people.”

Jamie rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling and groaning. “Jesus Christ. You need to kiss a guy ASAP if this is what it’s doing to your head.”

“But Georgie-” he protests. Hadn’t Jamie been the one telling him off for apparently flirting with George only last week?

“You’re on a break, and I’m sure she’d be telling you the same if she heard you had a crush on _Bruce Willis_. Bloody hell, I did not think this was going to be the outcome of today,” Jamie says. “Invite Faz round for Christmas, have a lovely, normal time – but no. Instead, he’s going to tell you about how he wants to snog an old guy. Don’t do it, past Jamie!”

Owen rolls his eyes, more than slightly annoyed. He’s trying to push his gay boundaries – just mentioning that he’s attracted to someone of a masculine persuasion is a big step for him. “Well, if you think I’m being so pathetic, then do something about it.”

Jami slowly turns to look at him. “Did you just ask me to kiss you?”

Owen flushes. This is too serious a conversation to have with bombs going off in the background, he thinks inanely.

But, to get back on topic – he kind of had. Would it be so bad? Like, he’s never thought about Jamie in that way before, but then he’s had Elliot and Georgie as barriers to that. It might be a little odd, for sure, but it’s all good practice.

“Yeah, I suppose I did,” he says, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

“Alright then,” Jamie says. He seems just as unsure as Owen, which helps settle him a little. It’s just Jamie – a guy. No big deal. It’s fine. It’s going to be fine.

Jamie sits down next to him on the sofa, _Die Hard_ still running in the background. It’s as good a time and a place as any to have his first gay kiss, Owen supposes, and at least he trusts Jamie. He’s not some random guy in Bradford, like George had, or Elliot-

He needs to know all of a sudden. “Was Elliot your first kiss?” he asks, and Jamie sits back with a strange look on his face.

“Does it matter?” he says.

“Well, no,” Owen stutters. The palms of his hands are clammy. “I was just thinking – I’m glad it’s going to be you because I trust you, but George didn’t have that, and I wasn’t sure if you had either.”

Jamie smiles, although it’s tense. “He was my first gay kiss, yeah, but I wasn’t his. A guy at school, I think, who turned out to be straight. I don’t think El even knows what he’s doing now.”

Owen nods. He’s one of the lucky ones, then, out of the four of them. He’s known Jamie for a third of his life, and they already know so much about each other and have shared so many experiences. What’s another one to add to the list?

“Are you going to tell Georgie about this?” Jamie asks, shifts a little closer.

“Are you going to tell Elliot?” Owen counters reflexively, before he can remember that it’s a sensitive subject.

Jamie bites his lip, drawing Owen’s gaze and sending hot shivers down his spine. “That’s different, and you know it. We’re not technically together at the moment, and you and Georgie still are.”

“I don’t think so,” Owen admits. “At least, not yet.” He doesn’t say it, but he thinks Jamie understands that, with their relationship being on such uncertain ground as it is, he doesn’t want to say anything that might drive Georgie further away. If they get back on better terms and he feels confident in her reaction, maybe, but not yet.

“That’s fair, I guess,” Jamie says. In his peripheral vision, Bruce Willis is currently straining not to fall off a burning building. “We’d better distract from that, hey?” he adds with a wink.

“Fuck you,” Owen murmurs, no heat behind it, and leans in.

His first thought is – it’s not that different to kissing Georgie. They’re both nice enough. Jamie is a bit less forward about sticking his tongue in Owen’s mouth than Georgie, but that’s probably to be expected.

Owen brings up his hands to cup Jamie’s face like he would with his girlfriend, and Jamie immediately moves his hands back down to his shoulders. “Not like that,” he mumbles into Owen’s mouth, changing the angle slightly.

He can’t help but be concerned that he’s thinking too much, for his first kiss with a guy. Admittedly, his first kiss with a girl was when he was about eight, and then his first _proper_ kiss was when he was most of the way to drunk just after moving down from Wigan. Maybe it’s just rose-tinted glasses, but he can’t remember being this stressed about it.

Jamie pushes gently at his shoulders, breaking the kiss. “You alright?” he asks softly. “Not that it wasn’t nice, just – you didn’t seem all there.”

Owen bites at a hangnail, accidentally tearing it off with a wince. “It was fine. I was more wondering that – shouldn’t it feel more stressful, a first kiss?”

Jamie shrugs. “It might do, but then that might be if you actually like the person you’re kissing in that way. No offence, mate, but it’s not like that for me.”

“Neither,” Owen agrees, and it’s a relief to hear it out loud even when he hadn’t gone into it with the expectation of any attraction developing. Jamie’s a mate, and it works well for both of them.

“So you might be stressed if you think it’s your one shot to get with the person,” Jamie continues with a little grin, “or because you’re not quite ready for it, something like that.” He pats Owen’s shoulder before retreating to his own sofa. “If you didn’t feel stressed by that, then I’m happy. Kissing a guy for the first time is a big step, and I’m glad you weren’t freaking out about it.”

Owen hums. Jamie’s making a fair point – if he’d been kissing some random person in a club, like when he’d met Georgie, he might be more scared about who was watching than in Jamie’s living room, with _Die Hard_ playing in the background. Maybe he’s not entirely okay with the gay part of himself, but he’s grateful Jamie gave him the opportunity to try it out, in a safe space.

“Thanks,” he says, knowing it’s inadequate. The smile Jamie gives him tells him he understands, so he isn’t too hard on himself. He’s kissed a guy, albeit one he’s always going to see as a friend rather than someone to date. It’s a start.

The film ends – Bruce Willis saves the world, and Owen still thinks he’s hot, much to Jamie’s annoyance. They scrape the last of the meat off the turkey and stick it into sandwiches for lunch, with the last few Brussels sprouts sliced on top as a nod to health. Then it’s back to the sofas again, another trashy Christmas film on to kill time until the Queen’s speech.

“She’s on good form,” Jamie says when the Queen’s finished, toasting the television with his mulled wine. “The First World War, the Commonwealth Games, _and_ Ebola? All in six minutes, as well.”

Owen nods, preferring to listen to the military band’s rendition of _Silent Night_. He hasn’t thought about it for years, but the carolling brass bands marching around the town back in Wigan were a staple of Christmas when he was a kid, and it doesn’t seem to happen down south. He’ll have to ask George if he’s heard any bands lately – not that he’s been in the north for Christmas, but still.

“Want to play Monopoly?” Jamie asks, when the programme ends. “Elliot taught me the two-player version, so it’s not as boring as the full game.”

“Alright,” Owen says. It’s not like he has anywhere else to be, and that could be a sad thought if he let it be. As it is, he’s happy that Jamie invited him round and wants to spend Christmas with him. It’s infinitely better than last year, sitting in the dark at home, concussed and groggy while Georgie tried to make him feel better. It wasn’t her fault, or anybody’s fault.

He’s doing better this year, without Georgie by his side (and he doesn’t want to think about whether that’s a contributing factor right now). It’s Christmas, and he can be happy, because he deserves to be.

(Mick’s definitely getting that Christmas card after the break.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really got into the Christmas spirit writing these chapters, for some reason - but it’s worked out really well because it’s actually snowing where I am as I post this! I'd love to hear what you thought about this update in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


	43. Chapter 43

It’s strange, how emotional highs and lows manage to average themselves out. Over the Christmas break, Owen’s flying – from the euphoria of actually being together with all his friends for the first time in ages, from Georgie deciding she’s going to move back in, and from confirming the gay part of his sexuality with an actual guy.

He gets two weeks of genuine happiness, the most consistently good he’s felt in a long time. It translates to his performance on the pitch, and he’s starting to think that he might be okay during the Six Nations. If he feels this unstoppable with his Saracens boys with him, then stepping onto the field for an international game won’t be too much harder.

It would be nice if he got the chance to test himself, but – he only gets two weeks. Two weeks into the New Year, Saracens’ final match of the Champions Cup group stages, away to Clermont. Two weeks and about twenty minutes, and he’s hobbling off the pitch and trying not to show the shooting pains up the inside of his knee on his face.

Owen’s so wobbly on his feet, but he gets himself down the tunnel and into the dressing room before grabbing onto one of the physios for stability. It’s not the worst injury he’s ever had, but it’s bad enough.

The lead medic pokes at his knee for a while, before strapping a brace onto his leg and sending him back out to watch the match with a pair of crutches. They lose 18-6, but it doesn’t matter. Sarries are through to the quarterfinals anyway, and Owen distinctly heard one of the physios muttering about _eight to twelve weeks, best case scenario_. He’s cold and tired and pissed off.

Coming back down to earth was always going to involve a bumpy landing.

Jamie tries to distract him as best he can, all that evening and through the flight back in the morning. He’s whisked off for a scan straight away, with barely a chance to catch his breath before the doctor is pronouncing the injury a high-grade medial ligament strain and the end of his Six Nations campaign before it could begin.

He makes nice with the physios, promises to come back for checks and rehab and the usual palaver, and then it’s time to go home. Jamie had offered to give him a lift, but he’s self-aware enough to know that he’ll just annoy his friend in his achy, irritable state. Instead, he takes a taxi. Thankfully, his scowl stops the driver trying to make conversation, and he’s allowed home in peace.

Inside, it’s mercifully warm – Georgie must be home already from her shopping trip. “Oh, sweetheart,” she says, catching him as he almost trips over the welcome mat. “Let’s get you onto the sofa, shall we? Then I’ll bring you a cup of tea.”

He submits to her ministrations as she manoeuvres him through to the living room in a pitiful imitation of a three-legged race. His girlfriend bustles around, tucking him in with a blanket and pressing the promised tea into his hand.

“How long did they say?” she asks, gripping his other hand. “They kept showing it on TV – it looked awful – but nobody knew how long.”

“Two months, at least,” he says dully. Repeating the words so often in the last few hours hasn’t reduced their sting.

“The whole…?” She trails off, but it’s obvious what she’s thinking – what everyone’s thinking. He’d even seen it on the news that morning, before Jamie confiscated his phone.

“Yep. Out for the whole Six Nations. Maybe even the rest of the season. World Cup camp is in June, for fuck’s sake, I don’t have time for this!” Anger bubbling up, he hits the sofa cushion next to him. Just when he was prepared to go back into an international setting and face his fears, something comes along to take away the choice.

If he’s lucky, Saracens will qualify for the semi-finals, and he’ll have another shot or two at proving to the coaches that he really does deserve his place on this team. Then again, luck hasn’t really been on his side recently, has it?

He slumps down, defeated, and takes a sip of the scalding tea. It can burn him, for all he cares – it’s not like he’s needed for much until his knee heals.

Georgie strokes his shoulder, murmuring about nothing for a couple of minutes until he brushes her off with a huff. Platitudes aren’t going to help anything.

“Well, if that’s not going to help,” she says, and he’s scared for a second that she’s going to get mad at him, “isn’t there some league on? Isn’t it about the right time for some preseason matches? That shouldn’t make you miserable.”

He covers her hand with his own for a brief moment. Maybe he should give her more credit, although it hardly takes incredible observational skills to notice his love of league. “Wigan were yesterday,” he says, wracking his brain, “but there’ll be something on Sky.”

“Want me to put it on?” Georgie asks, already leaning over to grab the remote. She looks at him, waiting expectantly, and shakes her head with a smile. “I didn’t need to ask, did I? League nerd, you are.”

She flicks through a couple of matches – Salford against Castleford (the situation’s not that desperate), Broncos against Hull KR (he’d rather poke his own eyeballs out) – until one catches his eye.

“Wait, no, go back,” he says, sitting up.

“St Helens? I didn’t know you liked them.”

“George moved there,” he says, bashful. It’s not a secret, that they’re friends, but she’s been weird about it before and she might be again.

“Oh, right,” she says. Her voice isn’t giving away much. “Another cup of tea?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” he says, eyes fixed on the screen. “Thanks, love.” Thanks to Georgie’s quick thinking, they’ve caught the match just before kick-off. George is starting – presumably a preseason test of his ability to settle into the team quickly – and the red and white of St Helens suits him far better than the Leeds kit ever did.

Owen would feel bad about ignoring Georgie so comprehensively if he wasn’t already feeling bad about everything. The bulky black brace in the corner of his eye is a constant reminder of that, so he pulls a blanket over himself and focuses on the match.

St Helens are playing decently, for a team almost half made up of newcomers. George has been tasked with shepherding a bunch of teenagers, academy graduates, and club debutants around the field, but Owen trusts his abilities. That first training session with the England U18s comes to mind – he should have no problems.

The thing is, no problems is very different from actually playing well. Even with Owen urging them on with the enthusiasm of a bandwagoner, they cannot overcome the well-drilled opposition. It’s not a fair matchup, he tells himself; Saints are obviously trying out new combinations and working out what clicks, but the other team have put out their strongest thirteen. Taken into account, George and his new lads do surprisingly well.

Because it’s preseason, there aren’t any post-match interviews, so Owen texts George his congratulations while he waits for the pundits to stop waffling. The next match is Leeds against Bradford, so he might as well watch that too. It’s not like he has anywhere else to be.

(Seeing Kit and Zak run out onto the pitch reminds him of Jamie’s Christmas present, rolled up and unceremoniously dumped in the cupboard in the spare room. He should do something about that, once he can get up and down the stairs in less than two minutes.)

Leeds are well ahead at the break, as they should be. Owen’s knee aches a little, more than it probably should with the horse tranquilisers they’ve given him, but he’s tensing with each of the standoff’s moves, living and dying with every kick and pass.

“Try and relax, sweetie,” Georgie coos, resting her hand on his thigh. “You doing all this isn’t going to help them.”

He grinds his teeth. It might not help, but that’s not why he’s doing it. He wants the feel of rugby back, even though it’s been less than a day since he was on a pitch himself. Scanning the field for opportunities is never going to be the same from on the sofa, but it’s as close as he’s going to get for a while.

She seems to notice that she’s getting nowhere. “I’ll go and start making dinner, baby. Pasta bake good with you?” He nods. The players are coming back out for the second half, so at least he can immerse himself in the game without her tutting at him the whole time.

It’s going well, until the commentator starts rambling on about international selection and how Zak’s a sure bet to get his fortieth cap this year. He balls his hands up into fists. Is even rugby league not safe for him anymore?

He knows he’s languishing in the twenties in terms of caps, and it’s nagging at him. Jonny Wilkinson never had this kind of dip in performance, or not one that he can remember. With the World Cup looming, he’s going to have played in a couple of warmup matches (if he’s lucky), a couple of the autumn internationals (badly), and then nothing before then until last Six Nations. Skipping tour might have seemed like a good idea at the time, but he’s sorely regretting it now.

George texts back, and they’re texting on and off virtually for the next six weeks. As much as he hates himself for doing it, it’s easier to talk to someone outside the club and outside his England competition. He can be honest with George about how he’s feeling and how his recovery is progressing in a way that he can’t with Elliot, both of them on the fringes of selection.

He still talks to Jamie, of course, when he sees his friend around the club while he’s in for a check-up, closing his ears to the sound of tackles and drills outside as best he can. Jamie even came round once to watch the opening round of the Six Nations together.

(He stayed for about fifteen minutes, until it became clear that Owen couldn’t handle watching Cips and Myler in _his_ shirt. Jamie had told him to stop being such a mardy git and left.)

So, he’s essentially by himself for the duration of the injury, Georgie around at weekends and in the evening but away 9-5 plus the commute on weekdays. His mum pops round a couple of times for lunch and a chat, but it’s difficult to avoid uncomfortable topics. Their lives revolve around rugby, for better or for worse, so he’s left chewing his fingernails and trying not to keel over from boredom.

He finishes Netflix – literally, even the shitty romances he watches in the middle of day so nobody finds out – within a month. His mum sends over some films and CDs he’d apparently liked as a kid that he’d forgotten about, and they last about a week.

(Maybe he feels slightly guilty about stealing Gabe’s entertainment, but then his little brother is two years old and, more importantly, mobile. He can look out the window for a couple of hours.)

Georgie finds the films hilarious, even taking a photo of him scowling when she walked in on him watching _101 Dalmatians_. It’s not his fault that he likes it – it was the first thing he ever watched in a cinema, according to his mum. It’s that and the brass band CDs that make her laugh most, as much as he tries to explain how comforting they are.

It’s the soundtrack of his childhood, weird though it seems to Georgie’s southern proclivities. It’s comforting and warm and takes him back to a simpler time, before rugby became something serious instead of a fun Sunday activity. He shouldn’t have to explain why he likes it, though, even when almost everyone he knows would laugh about it.

(George would understand, he thinks miserably. He wouldn’t take videos of him asleep on the sofa with brass band hymns playing softly in the background.)

Still, by mid-March, he’s passed as fit enough to enter the final stretch of his rehabilitation. It apparently requires him to fly to some specialist in the US to really prod the ligaments back into their original shape, so he’s going to be away for a week and a half.

He packs his bags and kisses Georgie goodbye with no small measure of relief. Their house and garden have become more of a cage than a sanctuary in recent weeks, so getting out for a few days will be nice. He’s been assured that his knee’s good enough now that the altitude won’t affect it negatively, and even the lingering worry that it will set him back isn’t enough to override his relief.

The rehab centre is fairly nice, in an impersonal and expensive way. He shudders to think what has been spent on this trip (and how much is coming out of his salary), but he can’t deny that it’s working. He’d been up and walking for a couple of weeks, even mixing it up with a tentative jog to feel the adrenaline, but the physios are determined to get him back to full fitness within the week.

In accordance with their wishes, he hops and jogs and sprints and jumps onto increasingly large boxes and pushes weights around and swims and takes unbearably hot and horrendously cold baths, among a variety of other tortures. Still, he can’t deny that it works, and the feeling of kicking his first penalty in months brings a lump to his throat.

(It’s not quite enough to make him cry – at least, not in front of the physios. It’s emotional, but not that much.)

What is closer to making him cry in public is the realisation, when he’s at the airport and figuring out time differences to ask Georgie to pick him up from Heathrow, that he’s going to miss the match. England-France, and all the other games on the final day of the Six Nations. There’s no way he can watch it.

If it were a normal Six Nations game, or earlier in the tournament, he wouldn’t have minded so much. But it’s the decider, with Ireland, England and Wales with one loss apiece. None of the title contenders are playing each other, so it’s probably going come down to points difference. It’s the closest finish to the championship in years and even if he wasn’t going to be playing, Owen wants to return to a successful team in good shape.

Cips has done a good job, he can acknowledge that much, though Myler seems to be falling by the wayside a little. Twelvetrees has been in camp the whole time, probably lurking and looming in an unhelpful manner. He’d rather it happened to Myler than to him, after the autumn series, but it’s never a nice feeling.

He fidgets for the entirety of the flight, biting his lip and picking at a loose thread on his jeans. The permutations for the matches are horrible. If Ireland win and the other two lose, then it’s an easy win for them. If Ireland and Wales win, then at least England will know how much they have to win by in order to take the title.

He groans, knuckles at his eyes. They’re prickling with tiredness, but there’s no way he can sleep. He has seven hours left on the flight, which means the Scotland-Ireland match is kicking off soon. Two and a half hours after that, England will kick off at Twickenham, and in four and a half hours (give or take a few minutes) the tournament will be over. Then it’ll be an agonising further two and a half hours until the plane lands and he can check the scores.

Owen scrunches his eyes shut. There’s nothing he can do about it. Positive vibes and all that shit doesn’t work, and he hasn’t even been in camp to help with training. He has no part in the outcome, whether it’s win, lose, or draw. He’s a spectator, that’s all, just like Jamie and Elliot and almost everyone else.

The key difference is that they can watch the match live, and he’s so jealous.

Time passes, as it always seems to, and the plane makes its way across the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. The journey out hadn’t seemed to take as long – something to do with the wind? He doesn’t know, and he can’t look it up because he doesn’t have an internet connection. If he did, that would really be the answer to all his problems.

Slowly, so slowly, the little plane on the map crawls across the blue, and Owen could cry when Portugal edges onto the screen. They’re so close now – the Six Nations is over, and perhaps his World Cup hopes too, based on how the incumbent flyhalves have performed – but he just wants to know the result.

Half an hour left, then twenty-five minutes, then twenty. The seatbelt signs go on, and his stress levels ratchet up another notch. It’s a good thing he’s not a nervous flier, or he probably would have passed out by now.

The plane’s wheels hit the tarmac, the pilot reads out the _welcome to London/welcome home_ message, and he’s turning off airplane mode the second the announcement comes through that it’s allowed.

The first message of the flurry that come in is from Jamie.

_Ireland won, +6 points difference to England. Thought you’d want to know._

_Hope the flight was okay._

Owen sighs, thunks his head on the seat in front. Fucking, stupid, bloody – after all that stress, and they’d lost by two penalties, or less than a converted try. Christ. It’s probably a good thing he hadn’t been able to watch it live, or he’d have burst a blood vessel.

_Ugh that sucks. Just landed, flight good (lots of snacks!) apart from lack of wifi._

He gets up the scores. Wales absolutely did a number on Italy, as to be expected, 20-61. Ireland beat Scotland 10-40 – again, not a surprise. But then England, winning 55-35 with seven tries and Cips kicking all the conversions and two penalties – it’s painful to even read, let alone see the photos of his teammates after the final whistle.

Chris looks absolutely gutted, shaking Nigel Owens’ hand (because who else could it be, on a day of such importance?) and turning to embrace Dan Cole. Even Cips is rid of his usual brash confidence, bleak and hollowed out behind the eyes. Owen makes a mental note to text him later – he did a good job, and it wasn’t his fault. He’s had that same experience too many times himself, on the pitch and off.

Somewhat deflated, after all those hours of build-up and then discovering that they lost (second again, for the fourth year in a row), he gets off the plane with the rest of the first class passengers. From there, it’s a quick trip through arrivals – there might be a flicker of recognition in the official’s eyes as he hands his passport over – and out into the carpark.

He spots Georgie quickly, walking over to the car with his bag slung over his shoulder. “Hey,” he says, kissing her on the cheek. “Good week?”

“Better now you’re here,” she smiles, takes his free hand. “You’re looking good – not limping at all, and I’d just got used to it!”

He looks down at his left knee, hidden under his jeans: no snug brace, no bandages, just a functional mush of cartilage and bone and ligaments and all the other stuff he’s been lectured on over the last few months. “Feels good, too,” he admits. “Bit of a relief, after everything.”

Georgie takes his bag and puts it on the back seat. “Straight home, or have you got anything you want to pick up?”

He shakes his head. Home sounds perfect, especially with the suppressed tiredness from the flight leaking back around the adrenaline of the rugby results. “Straight back, if that’s alright with you.”

“Of course, sweetie. I set the oven to turn on at seven, so hopefully your pie will be done by the time we get back – that or the house will have burned down.”

Owen yawns happily. Alright, his team had lost, but it wasn’t his fault. He’s back on an upward swing, it feels like, although he’s realistic about the chances of reaching the heights of Christmas again. Having rugby – his job, his purpose – back will be enough for him at the moment. Rugby, a pie, and the ability to sleep in his own bed? Things are looking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you thought about this chapter, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


	44. Chapter 44

He doesn’t actually play again until the middle of April – the Champions Cup semi-final against Clermont, because who else could it be? Being back at training is enough for a couple of weeks, but then the shine wears off and he’s desperate to be back on a rugby pitch in anger.

The squads are announced on the Thursday ahead of the game on Saturday, and Owen’s insides are all twisted up when he hears that Bardy’s starting the match. His injury wasn’t the flanker’s fault, he knows, but the thought of being on the same patch of grass as him fills him with anxiety.

Then again, he’s been in this situation before, after the concussion. He just has to get out there and play his game and settle back in the rhythm of things, and it will be fine. The only problem with this method is the dread that builds up before. Mick’s been teaching him about breathing techniques and visualisation in the aftermath of his panic attack following the Samoa match, but he’s too keyed up to be able to put any of it into action.

Jamie’s his usual calming presence at his side, but he can only do so much. Bardy’s starting and Owen’s on the bench, so there’s a chance they won’t be on the pitch at the same time, but if Charlie or Brad get injured, he’s going to have no choice.

(He wouldn’t have a choice anyway, but he’d like to think that Mark and the other coaches wouldn’t throw him straight on to play against the guy that kept him on the side lines for three months.)

Being in a stadium with rugby boots on instead of trainers is almost enough of a rush, and the baying of the forty thousand fans only adds to the sensory deluge. For all he’s a seasoned professional, he’s glad to be starting the match on the bench. This way, he can work his way back into the atmosphere without the pressure of starting the match. Without injuries – he knocks on the wooden bench reflexively – he’ll have a good forty or fifty minutes to acclimatise.

He can do this. It’s going to be fine.

Saracens don’t play fantastically in the first half, but neither do Clermont. They come in with a 6-3 lead at halftime, and Owen can’t reproach Charlie for that. He couldn’t have done any better himself.

The first replacements come ten minutes after the break, Jamie and Petrus swapped out in favour of fresh legs. Jamie squishes himself in between Owen and Neil. He’s breathing heavily and dripping with sweat, but Owen appreciates his presence. His friend’s managed fifty minutes without an injury, so he can surely manage thirty – or less, by the time he’s sent on.

Bardy goes off five minutes later, and Owen breathes a sigh of relief. Bar a concussion to one of the French back row, he’s not going to have to play against him. It’s good timing, or the coaches really were waiting for Bardy to be subbed off before they put Owen on, because he gets the call two minutes later.

It’s 10-6 when he runs on to replace Charlie, a niggle in his knee appearing in a way that he firmly tells himself is psychosomatic. Making up a four-point deficit is doable, even coming off the back of three months out injured and into such a tense, tight game.

It’s an arm-wrestle more than anything else, which Clermont and their huge forwards inevitably win. One more penalty apiece to take the scores to 13-9 – he doesn’t miss, which would be the ultimate humiliation – and the match is done.

“Well played,” he mutters to Bardy in the handshake line. The flanker makes eye contact for a second, returns the compliment, and moves on to the next Saracens player. Either he doesn’t remember the tackle or he’s trying not to make a big deal out of it, and Owen’s not sure which he’d prefer.

Nevertheless, he’s made it through the hardest part. His legs are a little wobbly with fatigue and residual anxiety, but he’s back. Not in the most stellar of fashions, it must be said, but he’s got through twenty-five minutes on the pitch. He’s still upright, and that’s something he wouldn’t have been grateful for six months ago at the start of the season, but he’s okay with that.

He might have lost most of 2013 and spent 2014 clawing his way back, and then spent the first three months of 2015 on the sofa, but he’s back now, on the up and up. It’s two months until World Cup training camp, and five months until the first match. Hopefully, he’s going to playing in it.

(Before, he would have dismissed hope and luck as factors in team selection. The last couple of years have proven otherwise, so he might as well cross his fingers to be picked and see if it helps.)

He can’t get ahead of himself, though – there’s the rest of the Premiership season to play, even if they have booked themselves a free weekend by losing to Clermont. The loss to Northampton the next week is bad enough in itself without Myler kicking twenty points and Owen scoring none in the twenty-seven minutes he’s on the field. It’s two more minutes than last week but three fewer points, and he knows which he’d rather have.

He gets a full half an hour the next week against Exeter, as well as three points, but it’s not enough to win. It’s not ideal – they’re still in a semi-final position – but losing three on the bounce isn’t a good look heading into the final rounds of the season.

Mercifully, it’s London Welsh next, so everyone has a chance to stretch their legs. Owen is trusted with the start for the first time since January, and he’s determined to make the most of it. It’s a relatively clean game, when it comes down to it: London Welsh only kick one penalty to go with their two converted tries, while Sarries don’t have the chance to take any penalties within range.

It’s a ten-try thumping, at the end of the day, and he converts nine of them for a pleasing 17-68 score line. Ashy scored four tries, three of them within five minutes, and it’s nice to be back on form after a torrid few weeks. Both the Vunipolas scored as well, but Owen can’t be quite as happy about that. For their rugby, they’re undeniably assets to the club. Their views – or Billy’s, at least – on other matters, he’s less enthusiastic about.

Fourth in the table at the end of the season is nothing to sniff about, anyway, and he hasn’t heard anything dubious from either of them recently, so he keeps his mouth shut.

They’re matched against Northampton for the semis, because of course they are. Myler’s starting, and Owen’s too stressed in his own head not to see it as his last chance to prove himself against his main rival for the World Cup squad, head to head. Cips is in already, no doubt about that after the Six Nations, but him and Myler are going to have to battle it out.

To make matters worse, Myler’s actually played a full season and started against Italy back in February. Owen’s played a handful of matches this year, mostly off the bench. He’s proved his ability to finish off an already-won game or lose with grace, but he doesn’t want that to be his role in the World Cup. He wants to be starting, to push the team to greater heights at their home tournament. He’s never going to get a chance to play for the Webb Ellis Cup at home again, and it feels like it all hinges on this match.

It starts well enough, Strets scoring in the second minute and Owen converting for a reassuring seven-point lead. But then they concede a penalty try and a penalty, and things don’t seem so certain anymore. Northampton won the Premiership last season, after all, and Saracens were just knocked out in the semi-finals of the Champions Cup. Who are they to be challenging the top dogs of English rugby?

Still, with a little help from McCall’s hairdryer treatment at halftime, they push back. Jamie scores off a driving maul, and Owen could kiss him.

(They’ve established between the two of them that it’s not something either of them want, but he’s jittery enough that he’d do almost anything to secure more points for the team.)

Wood scores for the Saints, starting Owen twitching again. He’s screaming himself hoarse and the lads are joining the rallying cry, but there’s only so much sheer volume can accomplish. Jamie and Dylan Hartley start scrapping at each other in the aftermath of a scrum, and he tries to put it out of his mind by scraping a few more penalties over the posts to make it 21-26 with ten minutes left to play. It’s by no means an inevitable outcome, but it’s as good a platform as they could have hoped for.

The referee awards a penalty to Sarries in a kickable position, and Owen’s confident enough to overrule Brad and point to the posts himself. If he gets these points – which he will, no question about it – they’ll be eight points clear. Three minutes left, once he kicks the penalty, and then it’s going to be a question of how fast Northampton can strike back.

The opposition do force their way into the Sarries 22, in spite of his yelled commands, and they’re coming so close to the try line. If one of the forwards in the maul were to break away – but they don’t. Garner awards a penalty, and Myler takes the three points. 24-29, with a minute to go.

Saracens should hold them out.

They should.

They should.

_They do._

Owen shouts with relief when the final whistle is blown, the few Saracens fans in the crowd making themselves heard. Too close for comfort, but then an easy ride to the final wouldn’t help them perform at their best then.

For the club and for him personally (and his nineteen points), it’s been a good day. He’s feeling magnanimous and confident enough to shake Myler’s – Stephen’s hand with a smile. “Good game,” he says. “You pushed us close.”

“Thanks, man,” Stephen replies, looking bone-tired. “Good luck for the final – and see you in camp, I guess.”

“Can’t wait,” Owen says. They’re both going to be in the initial fifty-man squad along with Cips, and a few other questionable choices. The Twelvetrees rumours have been doing the rounds again, though that’s not the most outlandish suggestion Owen’s heard.

It’s not that he doesn’t think Jamie’s good enough for the squad – he is, and he’s proved it much more comprehensively than Owen himself over the course of the season – but England already have four solid hookers. Tom Youngs, Rob Webber, and Dylan have been around for years, and Cowan-Dickie’s got the young-gun spot nailed down.

The squad selection is due out on the Monday after the semi-final. Owen’s in, as are Cips, Myler, and Twelvetrees. That’s not the biggest shock, though.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me!” Jamie yells across to Owen in the locker room after training, looking up from his phone.

“What?” He’s only skimmed the list, assuming that the biggest surprise would be Sam Burgess and having that confirmed.

“Bloody El’s in!” Jamie bounces over to him and sticks his phone in Owen’s face. “Genuinely, what the fuck? Did you know about this?”

Owen shakes his head. Stuart and the other coaches had really kept that one quiet; Elliot must be over the moon. “No. That’s incredible, though. He’s going to do so well.”

“Oh, I know,” Jamie says happily. “I’m going to call him now – do you want to come?”

“In a few minutes,” Owen says, tapping his knee. “I think I need to sort this out with the physios first.”

Jamie nods, easily accepting the excuse, and leaves the room to call Elliot. Owen doesn’t leave his stall. His knee is a little achy, but nothing a few painkillers won’t fix. No, what he’s really worried about is Billy. Everyone had heard Jamie’s buoyant announcement, including the number eight.

Whether or not Jamie and Elliot are dating at the moment (he does need to check, although it doesn’t seem to change their behaviour much), Billy’s going to try and target Jamie for his enthusiasm. It’s the least Owen can do to hang back and intercept if he tries to say anything.

Initially, it looks like Jamie’s going to get away with it – _it_ being the ultimate sin of daring to show emotion in a rugby setting without having scored a try or won a match. Billy wanders over to the door a couple of times but Owen makes sure to be ready with a challenging glare each time, and it forces him to retreat.

Jamie comes back in, grinning ear to ear, and Owen can’t help but share his infectious excitement. He’s going to be in camp with Elliot, one of his closest friends, for months. Ben’s fine, but Elliot knows him better, thanks to the gay group chat. It would have been the icing on the cake for Jamie to be selected too, but the man himself doesn’t seem overly disappointed, so Owen can allow himself to be happy about the situation.

“Is he happy?” Owen asks as Jamie sits down beside him. His friend doesn’t seem to be aware of much in his dreamy state, so he takes the opportunity to shoot Billy a hard stare. If he tries to upset Jamie now, then Owen’s prepared to kiss the Premiership title goodbye by disrupting team unity.

“Oh, mate, he couldn’t believe it.” Jamie bends down to pull his socks off, smiling all the while. “Bit worried, because he’s the only Wasps back, but absolutely ecstatic the rest of the time.”

“We’ll look after him,” Owen promises, looking threateningly in Billy’s direction. “It’s a decent group of lads, most of the time.”

Jamie nods. “It’s a good thing it’s a home World Cup, or I’d actually go nuts without seeing you two for that long. I’d have to move in with George to get my friendship fix.”

Owen slaps Jamie’s arm. “Don’t be stupid, mate. Pennyhill’s not a prison.”

“Yeah, but you get to go abroad on fun training camps and stuff like that. I’ll be here by myself, all on my lonesome.”

Owen hits him again, harder. “Wait until you get asked to one of the training camps. They’re the furthest thing from fun you could imagine.”

Jamie sniffs, turns his head away. “Alright, Faz, rub it in. George gets to play for England, you get to play for England, now even Elliot gets to play for England. Maybe I should get a dog and call it Twickenham, see if that helps.”

Owen snorts. “Bloody hell, don’t do that to a dog. Anyway, you’ll be up with us soon enough. It just takes hookers longer to develop, right?”

“I don’t know _what_ you’re insinuating, young man!” Jamie splutters, clutching his imaginary pearls.

It says something about the week that winning the Premiership for the second time in four years and being named POTM isn’t even the most exciting thing that happens – at least in Owen’s eyes.

He and Jamie make the trip over to Twickenham, hungover and bleary-eyed, on Sunday afternoon to watch England play the Barbarians. Elliot’s starting at outside centre, with Cips at flyhalf. It’s a good Barbarians side, but England should be more than good enough to match them.

Owen struggles to focus on most of the match, most likely a consequence of his five hours’ sleep and the one-sidedness of the game. Elliot makes a good pass to send Clifford over in the twenty-seventh minute, and another right at the death for Danny to score.

It’s 73-12 in the end, and Owen’s content to allow Jamie to tow him down to loiter outside the locker room. They’re here as fans more than anything else, still bruised and battered and alcohol-infused from the night before, so he doesn’t feel too weird about it.

They lurk in the tunnel for about ten minutes before someone registers that they’re there, and even then it’s only Jamie that gets called in. Owen’s left to stand by the wall by himself, trying not to look like too much of a twit. He’s fiddling around on his phone, answering the messages he hadn’t got round to earlier, when Elliot grabs him in a hug, Jamie right behind him.

“Faz!” he says, too loudly for Owen’s sore head. “How’s it going?”

“Good, good,” he replies. Jamie and Elliot are both looking suspiciously happy. “What’s going on? Are you pulling a prank on me or something?”

Jamie makes a cross sign over his heart. “Never, mate, this is all true.”

“What’s all true?” He’s definitely missed something.

“So, you know how Hartley’s been banned for headbutting me during the semi,” Jamie starts, and Owen pulls a face. He hadn’t, actually – he’d been slightly preoccupied with beating Bath to pay attention to Northampton’s sanctions.

“It means he’s not in the World Cup squad anymore,” Jamie continues, a little smile breaking through his serious expression.

“You mean…” Owen says. He doesn’t want to assume and jinx anything, but also, if he’s right…

“Cometh the hour, cometh the man,” Elliot crows, grabbing Jamie in a headlock. “The group chat takes the World Cup, baby!”

Owen’s eyes widen. “You’re serious? Holy fuck, Jamie!” His friend’s just wriggled out of Elliot’s grasp when Owen snatches him up in a hug. “Mate, I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs into his neck. “They just tell you then?”

Jamie nods. “Yeah – Lancaster pulled me into a back room and was like, ‘Hey, want to play in a home World Cup?’, and I was like, ‘If it wouldn’t be too much of a bother, sir’, and now I’m in.”

“You never said that,” Owen snorts. Elliot’s joined the hug now, making a little swaying cluster in the deserted Twickenham tunnel. Shit, maybe they’ll all get to walk down here and play for England together in a few months’ time.

“Not quite that calmly, but I swear I did,” Jamie says. “Shitting Christ, though – all three of us!”

“Bet George wishes he picked union now,” Elliot adds, and there’s a momentary silence for what could have been. “Still – he can come and watch. He’ll be free, right?”

“I think the league season carries on through to October, and then there’s a series against New Zealand,” Owen says, thinking through the calendar. “If the dates match up, he might be able to.”

“We’ll have to ask him when we go up week after next,” Jamie says decisively. He’s disentangled himself from the clump now, and Owen gives Elliot a little squeeze before letting him go too. “Have a little sort-out of the schedules, now there’s only two different timetables to compare instead of three or four.”

In the excitement of the last two days, Owen had forgotten all about their trip up north. George and St Helens are playing Wigan at home on Friday night, so the three of them are going up on the Thursday and staying until Sunday – the first time they’ve all been together since before Christmas.

Owen smiles a little wider at the thought of it. He can’t wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Highlights from the Premiership final.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6W0NNe5fK3g)   
>  [Highlights of the England vs Barbarians match.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XsDySJQXt5c)
> 
> I'd love to hear what you thought about this update in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


	45. Chapter 45

It’s a cheerful journey north on Friday morning. Jamie’s driving, as usual, and he and Owen have a good chat in the couple of hours before they arrive at Elliot’s house in Coventry.

“Alright, mate?” Owen asks, hopping out to make sure Elliot’s stuff fits with the rest of theirs in the boot – Jamie’s decided to pack like he’s trekking to the North Pole, for some reason.

“Yeah,” Elliot says, squishing his rucksack into an empty corner. “Still haven’t got over the shock, but excited for this too.”

“It’s like a summer holiday!” Jamie says from the driver’s seat. “Except it’s going to be freezing. Trust me, I’ve done my research,” he says to Owen’s disbelieving look. “You lose about five degrees air temperature going that far north, so I’ve come prepared.”

Owen exchanges a look with Elliot in the back seat. “Jinx, you have been to the north before, right?”

“When I was about ten, yes,” Jamie answers, pulling out onto the main road. “The cold was the main thing I remember.”

“What time of year was it?” Elliot enquires. “Winter, by any chance?”

“No, it was the Easter holidays,” Jamie says snootily. “We went to the beach, and it was bloody freezing.”

Owen rolls his eyes. “And there’s your answer, mate. Of course it was cold at the seaside – it’s windy and the water’s basically Arctic. We’re going to Merseyside, not Scotland.”

“Same difference,” Jamie says. It’s clear he’s not going to back down, so Owen lets Elliot change the subject. He’s the master Jamie handler among them, after all.

It’s another couple of hours along the motorway and then down some fiddly back roads before they reach Crosby, where George’s house is. “I don’t understand why you don’t know the way,” Jamie complains as Owen directs them down yet another dead end. “You’re northern – this is your area, even.”

Owen looks to the sky for some divine assistance. “I lived about twenty miles east of here, mate. I was also _a child_ , so I didn’t bother paying attention to the roads. Get a satnav next time, hey?”

Still, they muddle through, arriving at George’s just after lunchtime. He’d already told them that he wouldn’t be home because of training, but he’s left a key under a flowerpot to the left of the front door. Owen feels around underneath the pot – squishes a few woodlice by accident, but George will never know – and extracts the key.

“Got it,” he says, moving to unlock the door. It’s a little weird, going into George’s house for the first time without him there to meet them, but they’re not exactly breaking and entering. He asked them to come and stay, and he’ll be back soon enough.

A quick glance behind confirms that Jamie and Elliot have got all their bags – Elliot shouldering the bulk of them, like an ungainly packhorse – so he opens the door and goes inside.

It’s a nice house, two-up, two-down with a low hedge bordering the neat front garden. It’s small but practical, gets the job done – like George himself, really, Owen thinks with a chuckle. He’s wondering where to direct the other two to put their stuff when he sees a note lying on the third step of the stairs.

_Morning lads (or afternoon, whenever you arrive)_

_You can fight over who gets the spare bed and who’s on the sofa before I get back (probably about 4:30), but it’s up the stairs on the right. There’s some food in the fridge in a labelled pot, or you can go and get something from the shop – it’s about a five minute walk away._

_Tea’s in the cupboard above the kettle, milk’s in the fridge. Make yourselves at home, and I’ll see you soon!_

_G :)_

“Up the stairs on the right,” Owen says, and steps back against the wall to let Elliot puff past him. It’s just past one in the afternoon, and he’s feeling a little peckish. While the other two are depositing their luggage, he goes to the fridge to inspect what George has left for them.

The kitchen’s nice enough, cute and compact like the rest of the rooms he glimpsed on his way past. The promised box – labelled _eat this not everything else_ – has a pork pie, carrots, and some (hopefully) cooked potatoes in. It could be a salad, if they try hard enough.

He’s found three plates and divided the offerings between them by the time Jamie and Elliot come down again. “This is lunch,” Owen says decisively, pointing to the plates with a flourish.

“Is there any ice cream?” Jamie asks. “It’s hotter than I was expecting.”

Owen passes the note over to him. “We can go and find some, if you want. This is it for now, though – we can’t eat the man out of house and home when he’s not even here.”

Elliot, craning over Jamie’s shoulder to read George’s scrawled message, says, “We could go to the shop and get some after this. It’ll kill some time too.”

Jamie seems satisfied by that, and sits down to eat without any more complaints. Owen joins him, enjoying the first guilt-free slice of pork pie he’s had in years. It helps that it’s a proper northern one – somehow it makes it taste better; the pastry a little crumblier, the jelly a little richer.

“It’s fucking good, that,” Elliot says through a mouthful of the pie. “Forget the ice cream, we need to go and buy more of this.”

Owen grins. “Good to know one of you’s been converted. George will be pleased.”

They polish off the rest of the food in five minutes, and then Owen has to look up the suggested shop on his phone. Why he’s the designated navigator when it’s already been established that he doesn’t know the area, he’s not sure.

Still, it’s a warm, sunny day, so the walk is an enjoyable one, even with a few unintended deviations. Crosby is a quaint, traditional town, and Owen can see why George would choose to live here instead of St Helens proper. The proximity of the sea must have been a factor, only ten minutes away. He remembers something about statues at the beach, but he saves that to ask George later, if they need something to break the ice.

(They won’t, but it’s always good to be prepared.)

The shop, perhaps predictably, has more ice creams in stock than pork pies, so Jamie buys his dessert while Elliot pokes around for his desired brand of pie. Feeling rather like a parent with two errant children, instead of the other way round, Owen herds them out of the shop. It’s only a corner shop – he’s not sure what Elliot had been expecting.

“Fucking hell, Faz,” Elliot mumbles through a mouthful of pie. “Are all your northern pies this good?”

He sneaks a glance at the wrapper of the pie, already half-demolished by his friend. He’s not going to disillusion him by pointing out the obvious – that it’s a Melton Mowbray, from Leicestershire and thus from the south. Elliot’s happy in his ignorance, and it’s too nice a day to disrupt that. “Nice ice cream?” he chooses to ask Jamie instead.

“Mm, yeah,” Jamie answers between licks. “Just what I needed.”

“Weren’t you getting anything, mate?” Elliot asks, apparently only just noticing Owen’s lack of second course.

“Nah, not too hungry,” he says. He doesn’t want to get defensive about this – they’re both giving each other significant looks behind his back – but it’s not a depression thing, or a restricting thing. He’s just genuinely not hungry right now.

“Alright,” Elliot concedes. “How long before George gets back?”

Owen checks his phone. With all the fussing in the shop and walking round the houses to get there, it’s later than he had been expecting. “It’s two now, so maybe two and a half hours?”

Elliot nods. “And what are we going to do for those two and a half hours?”

“Yeah, tour guide, what’s next?” Jamie chimes in.

Owen rolls his eyes. He’s going to start faking a southern accent in a minute if it stops these two prattling on like this. “You could have a nap? You like afternoon naps, don’t you, El?”

“Ooh, yes,” Elliot says, eyes lighting up. “That’d be great.”

“Am I allowed to have a nap at the same time, dad, or is that banned?” Jamie asks.

Owen pulls a face. Whatever Jamie’s implying – he does _not_ want that happening in the house while he’s there. Ew.

“If you have to, but make sure you’re actually asleep,” he says, ignoring the snickering coming from his companions. “If you’re not, that’s gross.”

“I’m actually going to go to sleep,” Elliot complains. “Don’t blame me if he does anything.”

“I do know you are separate people, funnily enough,” Owen says grumpily. “Go have a nap together, I don’t care.”

“Thanks, Faz,” Jamie says cheerily. “We’ll be much more awake once we’ve had a nice sleep.”

“And you’re not awake now? Thank fuck I’ll have George as backup later.” He’s being serious – those two have been – not winding him up, exactly, but chattering incessantly – all day, and he could do with a break before they go even more haywire in the evening.

True to form, Elliot and Jamie natter on behind him as he leads the way back to George’s house. He makes it all the way back without using his phone for navigation this time, and he’s inordinately impressed with himself. Maybe he does have skills outside of rugby after all.

He unlocks George’s front door, letting the other two rush in and up the stairs like excitable puppies. They’re just going to have a nap, but they’re oddly enthusiastic.

(If they are having sex, he’s not going to be able to stop cringing for a week.)

After a few minutes, the voices from upstairs cease, and Owen relaxes a little. He’s sat on the sofa, feet propped up on the stool. It’s strange, making himself at home like this when George isn’t around, but he has to get over it pretty quickly. What else is he going to do – stand in the front garden for two hours?

Instead, he looks around the room. It’s meticulously tidy, everything tucked away in its place. George might have cleaned up specially for their visit, but he knows his friend well enough to be sure that wasn’t the case. That’s just how he is.

On the windowsill, bracketed by two unnaturally neat cacti, are some picture frames. He can’t see what’s in them very well from his seat on the sofa, so he gets up to peer closer.

The three photos are all rugby-related, but the different vibes in each one are clear. The first, on the left, shows George, Kit, and Zak in their Leeds kit, muddy and tired after a game. It might have been taken after they won the trophy, or in any number of other matches. The friendship and the bond between them is the most important part of it to George, Owen can guess.

The central photo is from Jamie and Elliot’s Leeds clubbing trip. It’s not one of the photos that he’s seen in the years since, but it’s similar enough that he can tell when it’s from. George is taking the selfie, beaming broadly in a swirl of strobe lighting, as Jamie and Elliot kiss his cheeks. Some glitter might be sparkling across his cheeks, or it could just be the sweat and excitement of the club.

The last one, he’s surprised by, to put it mildly. He can’t even remember this photo being taken, but of course he recalls the day perfectly. It’s not quite the picture Sally-Anne had cajoled him into, the day of George’s first cap ceremony – the one where they’re both stiff and awkward, Owen’s hand hovering over the small of George’s back.

No, this must have been a split second before or after. They’re both still in their horrible blazers with their awful haircuts, but it’s a more natural photo. He’d put good money on it being taken by Jamie or Elliot, the little sneaks, given the angle it’s from and where he remembers them standing in the room.

He’s leaning down to murmur something in George’s ear, while George is smiling softly up at him. It’s sweet, the look in his eyes, and – oh, _shit_. This was back when George had a crush on him, wasn’t it? Now he’s looking at it with the benefit of hindsight and his friend’s confession, it’s obvious. The way he’s angled towards Owen, one hand reaching for his upper arm – he’s caught in a split second, drawn towards Owen like a plant to the sun.

He takes one last look at the picture, then moves away to look out the window. Even though it’s on full view for anyone to see, it feels almost too private for him to be staring at. Maybe George hadn’t expected him to see it, or-

Maybe he had, and it’s intended to be some kind of message. He can’t be serious, though. Owen has a girlfriend (still, and how he’s managed that, he’s not quite sure) and trying to make him cheat isn’t fair on any of them.

Tearing his eyes away, he focuses on the garden outside. It’s small, bigger than a postage stamp but not quite deserving of being described as an envelope. A neat hedge runs around the garden in front of a wooden fence, and the borders are all immaculately tended to. The grass looks pristine – clearly George doesn’t practise his kicking on it.

Owen’s not getting house envy. He’s not.

Just – how does George have time for all this, as well as his job and settling into a new place? Owen’s had the same house for several years at this point, and the garden is a mess aside from the square of grass he makes sure to mow around and in front of the posts. He hasn’t even had time to put up Jamie’s Christmas present yet, and that makes him feel worse.

Georgie would appreciate it, at the very least.

He’s lost in thought after that, imagining the parts of George’s hoes and garden he could transplant into his own. The pink and blue flowers bordering the lawn, whatever they’re called (he’ll have to ask, in a subtle way) would be a nice addition. Closer to the house, though, so he doesn’t have to worry about destroying them with the occasional wayward kick.

He only realises how much time must have passed when he hears the rattle of a key in the lock. “Anybody home?” George calls from the hallway, and Owen bolts through to greet him.

“Hey, mate,” he says, grinning. “How’s it going?”

“Better with you lads here,” George smiles back. “Been a while since I’ve been able to say that, you know?”

Owen hums. Not from personal experience – he’s always been with his family or Kruiser or Jamie or Georgie – but he can imagine. Six months living by himself in Crosby, after several years of house sharing with Kit and the other Leeds boys, must be strange. Quiet, at the very least.

They share a look as Jamie and Elliot thunder along the landing and down the stairs. Not much chance of that while those two are around, he thinks.

“Fordy!” Elliot yells, jumping the last three steps and grabbing George in a hug. “Good to see you, mate.”

(Owen tries not to feel jealous. He should have done that, not just stood next to him with his hands in his pockets like a twerp.)

“You too, weirdo,” George says, muffled, into his shoulder. “And Jamie! I’ve missed you guys.”

“We missed you too,” Jamie says. He elbows Elliot aside and picks George up in his own hug. His feet are still on the floor, but only just.

“What’ve you been up to, then?” George asks, once he’s prised himself free of Jamie’s grip. “Not poking around all my stuff, I hope.”

Owen shuffles his feet.

“We ate the food you left for us,” Elliot says, following George through to the kitchen, “and then Owen took us to the shop on the corner so we could get dessert.”

“And you only ate that food?” George says, opening the fridge like he doesn’t believe them.

“Yep,” Owen says, coming in to stand behind the three of them. “I kept their grubby little hands off the other stuff. Elliot likes pork pie now, would you believe it?”

“Thanks, mate,” George says with a soft smile, before turning back to Elliot. It’s not that he stops smiling when he looks at Owen, he decides, it’s just a different expression. What that expression might be, he can’t be sure, but he’s pleased with himself for having the ability to tell the difference.

Elliot and Jamie, as if they have to live up to their earlier promise, are talking nineteen to the dozen about the journey up, the trip out, how much they liked the mattress in the spare room – Owen catches George’s eye over the top of their heads and rolls his eyes. George grins back. It’s nice.

Since the match kicks off at eight at Langtree Park and it’s already almost five, Owen’s happy to help with making tea. George kicks the other two out of the kitchen – “Go play Mario Kart, or something.” – and peace is restored.

“They wanted a nap so they could be more awake for when you came back,” Owen says, weighing out some pasta as per George’s instructions, “but I don’t think they needed it.”

George wrinkles his nose. “Jesus, I hope they were actually sleeping. I don’t want to have to clean anything off the sheets already.”

“Well, they went silent about five minutes after they went up, so either they were quick about it or they did actually go to sleep.”

George groans. “Let’s not talk about this anymore, mate. How’s Georgie? How’s talking to Mick going?”

He tips the pasta into the boiling water, stalling for time. Neither of these topics are exactly top of his conversational list, but he’s got to come up with something that isn’t their friends’ possible sex life.

“I was just thinking about how nice your garden is,” he says finally.

“Yeah?” George says, looking at him in surprise.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “My garden at home looks absolutely shit, and I probably should do something about it.”

“Watch _Gardeners’ World_ to start with, mate, and then ask your mum for help,” George says, laughing. “That’s what I started doing, and you can see how good the results are.”

Owen nods. “Like, those blue and pink flowers round the edges – what are they called? They’re really pretty.”

“Glad you like my taste,” George says, moving to the window to look.

“Always,” Owen murmurs as he joins him.

“Those big ones in the corner?” George points, and Owen leans close to him to be able to tell which ones he’s gesturing at.

“Yep, they’re the ones.”

“Hydrangeas, mate. Don’t plant them right now, but wait a couple of months so they can establish themselves over winter.”

Owen blinks. George really has been doing his research. “Okay, wise one. Does November work?”

George grins at him. “What, after the World Cup? It could be alright, but a little earlier would be better. Hey, if you get knocked out early, it would be the perfect time for planting!”

He looks delighted with himself, and Owen has to fight his instinct to grind his teeth. This tournament and its pool of death (as if anyone needs reminding) will be hard enough without George jinxing them over the right time to plant bloody hydrangeas, of all things.

“ _Anyway_ ,” he says though a clenched jaw, “that’s helpful. Thanks, Georgie.”

“Not a problem,” George says, going back to the food prep. “Can you cut this courgette up for me?”

Owen takes the courgette and the knife and settles in to work next to George. It’s elbow to elbow, yes, but not in the same way as it used to be. Instead of working together on a rugby pitch, they’re collaborating on making tea for their friends. It’s their new reality, and he thinks he’s just about okay with it.

Elliot and Jamie’s squawks of laughter from the living room help to convince him. Things are different, but they’re not necessarily worse.

Mick would be proud of him for that realisation, and Owen is too.

The spaghetti bolognese is finished in plenty of time, and Elliot and Jamie make enough appreciative noises that it’s worth the slightly stilted last twenty minutes of conversation he and George had shared.

Sometimes, he’s just too focused on not making it weird that he goes overboard and pushes too hard, or runs out of things to say. It’s a skill, and one he’s working on.

(One he neglected in his teenage years, and he’s regretting it now. Media training can only go so far when talking to one of your best friends.)

“Do you lads want to drive in with me,” George asks once all the plates are empty, “or come a little bit later? I’ll have to be off in half an hour, so you’d be hanging around for a while.”

“That’s fine by me,” Jamie says, shrugging. “We’ve already established that Owen’s sense of direction is shit, so we’d actually make it on time if we went with you.”

“I agree,” Elliot says, flashes a grin at Owen. “If he can’t find a shop round the corner from here, how’s he going to get us to a stadium miles away?”

Owen wants to protest in defence of his navigation skills, but he senses he’d be fighting a losing battle. “Going in with you is fine. Jamie’s driving is awful, anyway.”

He may not be able to defend himself, but attack is the best form of defence. Jamie’s immediately yelping about how he passed his test first time with half the number of minors Owen himself got, while George and Elliot watch the carnage unfold across the table.

“So you’ll be coming with me?” George says five minutes later, once Jamie has descended into a mock-mutinous silence.

“If it wouldn’t be too much bother,” Elliot says brightly. “We definitely can’t leave these two alone – it’d be like that riddle, you know the one with the chicken and the fox and the corn?”

“Yeah, well, we can’t exactly leave you and Jamie alone together,” Owen counters.

Jamie smacks his head on the table. “That was a _joke_ , mate. I wouldn’t do that with you in the house, fuck no.”

George raises his eyebrows. “Not what I’ve heard. Anyway, I need to go and sort out my kit bag, so you lot behave while I’m gone.”

The three of them sit in silence as George’s footsteps recede up the stairs.

“You’re together at the moment, though?” Owen asks hesitantly, running his fingers over a dent in the table.

Jamie and Elliot shoot each other a nervous look. “Not in so many words,” Elliot says. Neither of them are making eye contact with him. “Let’s say – friends with benefits?”

Owen frowns. “Really? Me and George were saying, you can’t tell with you two whether or not you’re dating, because you always act the same.”

Jamie shrugs. “That’s just because it’s how we’ve always been, mate. I need to piss, so don’t do anything fun until I get back.”

He gets up and leaves, and it’s only Owen and Elliot left at the table now. Owen stacks the plates and goes to start washing up, while Elliot grabs the tea towel. “Okay, so I know you and Georgie are still technically together, but – what about you and George?” Elliot asks.

Owen’s grateful he waited until they were washing up to bring up this topic. This way, they won’t have to look at each other. He can focus on the dirty cutlery in his hands, not Elliot’s reactions to his words.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Like, he’s a great friend, but I do sort of have a commitment to Georgie. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t break up with her just to give it a shot with George. That’s not how it works.”

“But do you want to?”

God, it’s a pain having a friendship group where everyone’s going to therapy. It’s like having a mini-Mick sat in the back of their heads at all times, ready to leap into action.

“Good question,” he says, three knives and a fork later. “I get that he still feels the same way about me, and I’m trying not to lead him on or hurt him.”

“That’s good,” Elliot says, crossing the kitchen, putting away the stack of plates, and coming back to the draining board. “But, say something happened with Georgie – would you go for it with George? I’m not going to tell him, obviously, but I want to be prepared if anything happens.”

“I don’t know.” He’s thought about it enough in recent months, but it feels like too much of a betrayal of Georgie, especially when it usually happens when she’s in bed next to him, asleep and ignorant. “It’s like – I don’t think it’s being scared of the gay part of things anymore, but I’m just not sure if it would work.”

Elliot scoffs. “Mate, he bloody adores you, you know? He’d make it work.” Another plate and the colander later, he says, “But you’re not freaking out about it anymore? That’s great. How did you manage it?”

Owen bites his lip. If Elliot really is in an exclusive friends with benefits situation with Jamie – and he wasn’t at Christmas when it all went down, he’s pretty sure – then saying what happened shouldn’t be an issue. Still, he’s nervous.

“I kissed Jamie,” he gets out, holding a bowl so tightly he’s sure it’s going to break. “At Christmas. It was just a onetime thing, and we both agreed it did nothing for us – so you don’t have to worry.” He’s irrationally panicked about Elliot’s reaction.

“I wasn’t worried,” Elliot says, so evenly that Owen’s worried himself that he’s misheard. “We were on a break then, and he’s entirely within his rights to do that. And if it helped you, that’s great. Just – how?”

Owen flushes. He’s prickling hot all over, and it’s not the steaming washing up water that’s having such an effect on him.

“We were watching _Die Hard_ because, you know, it was Christmas, and I said something about Bruce Willis being hot, and Jamie was like, ‘Fuck no, you can’t think that, kiss me instead and maybe it’ll put you off him’.”

“Of course he did,” Elliot says, fond.

“And then we kissed, and it was fine – a bit awkward, but we’re moved on. It’s in the past, and neither of us wants to do it again.”

“That’s a relief,” Elliot says. “I don’t think I could compete with you.”

Owen bites his lip. Where’s George? They’re supposed to be leaving in eight minutes, and he’s nowhere to be seen. Jamie, too, for that matter – are they all conspiring to get him to talk about his feelings?

“Don’t say that. It’s not a competition – and anyway, you’re hot.”

“Aww, thanks, Faz.” Elliot flutters his eyelashes. “I wasn’t really fishing for a compliment, but thanks, I guess. You’re not too bad yourself.”

Owen squeezes his eyes shut, hard enough that he sees grey speckles all across his vision when he opens them again. Nope, definitely not dreaming. “No offence, but that doesn’t mean I want to date you,” he chokes out.

How has he gone from acknowledging one of his friends’ crushes on him to talking to a second friend about how he kissed their third friend and then moving into a mutual agreement that they’re both attractive? His life, honestly – being straight was never like this.

Elliot snorts. “Fine by me, mate. Jamie’s still number one for me, and I wouldn’t do it to George anyway.”

“You wouldn’t do what to me?” George says from the doorway.

Owen’s infinitely glad that he’s facing the other way.

“Distract you from your game by making Faz sing in the car,” Elliot says smoothly, and Owen breathes a sigh of relief. “He kept saying he would all the way up, but Jamie wouldn’t let him. Maybe on the way home, mate – once you’re dropped me off.”

“Thanks, El,” he murmurs. “So kind.”

“That’s me!” Elliot chirps, clearly over their close call already. “Ready to go now, Georgie?”

“Uh, yeah, if you two have finished washing up.”

Owen tips the dirty water down the sink on the instant – he doesn’t want to be responsible for messing up George’s routine.

“And if Jamie’s ready-” George continues.

“Behind you,” Elliot says, as Jamie pops into view over his shoulder.

“Then we can go,” he finishes.

“Dibs on front seat,” Jamie yells as they go out of the house.

George tsks. “No, Owen’s in the front. You and El can lump it in the back.”

“But why?” Jamie whines. “I’ll be travelsick.”

“No, you won’t,” Owen says, strapping himself into the front seat before Jamie has time to fight for it. “I’ve got longer legs, anyway.”

Jamie keeps up his complaints all the way to the stadium, until George pulls into the players’ carpark. “These are your tickets,” he says, handing them out. “It’s an hour and a half until kick-off, but I’m sure you’ll find something to do.”

“Pie!” Elliot says gleefully.

“We’ll text where we are afterwards,” Owen says, long-suffering, slipping back into the role of parent. “Good luck, mate.”

They let George go with a flurry of good lucks shouted at his receding back, and then it’s just the three of them in the St Helens players’ carpark.

“Pie, then?” Owen asks. He might be navigationally challenged (thanks, Jamie) and without an inbuilt northern pie detector (thanks, Ben), but he does know how rugby stadiums are laid out. Hopefully Elliot will be kept quiet for a while by his pie, and then it’ll only be him and Jamie left to have a grown-up conversation. He can think of worse conversational partners.

The June sun is still high in the sky as they make their way through the ticket gates to the main concourse. A few Saints fans are dotted around the concrete, but Owen’s the solitary Wigan supporter as of yet. He’s not sure how he’s going to manage his split loyalties – especially when George actually has a chance of winning this match.

Still, it’s going to be a good evening either way, and he’s ready to enjoy it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lads' trip up north for the rugby? You bet.  
> Also, I posted [this](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com/post/639567616036438017/more-about-the-spiral-bombs-from-last-weeks-game) video on my [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com) a few weeks ago, but I’m linking it here because it feels most relevant to this chapter :)
> 
> And finally - happy Six Nations eve! If you're not feeling the hype yet, I'd really recommend [Squidge Rugby's latest video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yMl2wxWN-rQ). Just watched it, and I'm even more excited than I was before. See you on the other side of the England match, with a massive 8k chapter either to celebrate or commiserate ;)


	46. Chapter 46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is, como se dice, _long_. I didn't want to drag out this section for more than two updates, so a huge chapter for you today!  
> (Also, it has a hurt/comfort element to it that might be useful for England fans after yesterday’s performance...)

This match is different to the last live league game Owen went to, if only because Elliot and Jamie have slightly more of a clue about what’s going on than Ben did. George is still the main attraction for him, despite the presence of the whole Wigan Warriors squad about thirty metres away. Even seeing his uncle for the first time in ages can’t distract him.

“Nice kit,” Elliot comments as the players jog out for the start of the match. “Chevrons are very league, aren’t they?”

“Very in vogue,” Jamie says wisely. “Maybe we should have some Saracens chevrons, red and black. Or Wasps chevrons! You’d look disgusting.”

Elliot wrinkles his nose. “Nah, mate. Black and orange is bad enough without bringing weird stripes into it.”

Owen kicks the pair of them not too lightly. “Focus,” he hisses. “They’re starting.” Wigan are taking the kick-off, running towards the area where they’re sat. Hopefully there won’t be too much action down their end of the field for the next forty minutes. He wouldn’t mind a close-up reminder of George’s skills in the second half, though.

Elliot and Jamie are chirpy as ever, commentating on the match as if they were in the comfort of their own living rooms. Owen has to block them out – half the time he disagrees with them through his Wigan loyalties, and the other half, they’re just plain wrong. He can’t correct them, however, too busy tracking George around the pitch and keeping tabs on what Sean is doing with the rest of his attention.

If Jamie and Elliot want to get thumped by someone who doesn’t agree with their opinions, that’s their choice.

The teams go in 8-10 at halftime, Sean having scored the only try of the match so far. “You uncle’s good, isn’t he?” Elliot says. “Can tell where you got it from.”

“Both sides of the family,” Jamie adds, nodding. “See, we’re no good because we only have one parent with connections. We could be Farrell levels of good, but it’s all our parents’ fault.”

Owen wants to make a snarky comment about the chances Jamie and Elliot’s kids would have – if they ever get to that point – but he bites it back. He’s not looking to get beaten up either, even if it is 2015 and he has some level of recognition keeping the worst offenders at bay.

Jamie and Elliot have started ineptly analysing Sean’s try, so Owen digs out his phone to text George.

_Good effort from your lads. Shame about the try, but you’ll get them this half._

He’s not going to get a response, but he hopes George sees it after the match and appreciates it. St Helens have been playing well in a relatively even matchup, although they’re not as firmly in a playoff position as Wigan are. It’s fine – George is still only twenty-two, so he’s got plenty of time to learn and develop.

Sean, on the other hand, is England captain and thirty-two years old. He should be playing better, by rights, so Owen’s not too worried about the differences in their performances so far.

His eyes are glued to George as he comes jogging out of the tunnel. He’s a little further away to begin with, but soon enough St Helens are working their way closer to the try line. Owen’s not sure if George is favouring one shoulder while he’s passing – he seems to be going mostly to the left, and the scrumhalf – Henry? – is passing to the right more frequently. It would be a weird pattern if they’d decided to run the game like that, so he’s inclined to think there’s something wrong with the shoulder.

It’s the same one he’d injured a couple of years ago, Owen remembers, but he wasn’t too sure about how the healing process had gone. In the same way George doesn’t pester him about his knee, he doesn’t launch an inquisition about every single body part when he thinks something might be wrong.

Makinson and Naqami score, and their tries and a host of penalties push the score up to 28-14 with only a few minutes left in the match. It’s looking good for St Helens, and do Wigan really need this win? Owen’s happy to let his favourite team lose to his best friend’s team, just this once (or maybe all the times in the future – Wigan can just beat everyone else to make up for it).

A final penalty is given to St Helens at the death, and Owen’s ready to watch George take the kick. He doesn’t, though, handing the responsibility to the scrumhalf. Owen bites his lip. If there’s something wrong with his shoulder, it shouldn’t prevent him from taking the kick. They could just be being careful…

Elliot seems to share his concern. “You think something’s up?” he asks quietly as Mitchell stares at the posts, preparing to kick. “He’d never surrender a penalty like that – I know what you flyhalves are like.”

Owen rubs at the back of his neck. “I don’t know, if I’m honest. He might be hurt, but it can’t be bad. He’s played the whole match, and they wouldn’t risk him otherwise.”

Elliot sits back in his seat, apparently mollified, and Jamie rests a hand on his leg. They’ve all got to look after each other in this little family they’ve made for themselves, and it’s looking like George is going to need more support than they had been expecting.

Mitchell kicks the penalty successfully, the referee blows the whistle, and Owen gets to his feet to applaud the efforts of both teams. Their seats are a few rows back from the pitch so there won’t be any of the over-the-wall hugging he had last time he watched George play, but he wants him to know that he’s here and he’s enjoyed his performance. 30-14 against an experienced Wigan side is something to get excited about, especially if George had been playing most of the match injured.

He’s got his lower arm wrapped in his shirt as he goes along the handshake line, and Owen gets his phone out again.

_If you need anything, let me know. I want to help <3_

_Also I’m happy to drive if you’re not up for it._

(He wouldn’t trust either of the other two with George’s car, but that’s not his entire motivation.)

By the time he’s put his phone away, Elliot and Jamie are standing up next to him. “Want to go and say hi?” Jamie says, pointing towards where a couple of the Wigan players are waiting the other side of the barrier.

“Too famous for the likes of us,” he hears Elliot complain good-naturedly as he scrambles over the rows of seating to greet his uncle.

“Hey, Sean,” he says, accepting his slap on the back. “Good game.”

“Thanks, kid,” Sean says. It’s not like he needs the approval, but Owen knows that it can be nice to hear sometimes. “That boy of yours did well.”

“Which boy of mine?” Sean might be his mum’s brother, not Andy’s, but this is suddenly a fraught conversation.

“Little George Ford,” Sean says genially. “He’s sparkier than I’d expected, tonight particularly.”

Owen shrugs, trying to play it cool. “He’s a good lad. Shame about the height, but he’s solid.”

“Not in England camp he’s not,” Sean says with a frown. “I wouldn’t say he fell apart last time, but it was close.”

Owen shifts uncomfortably. He’s not sure he wants to hear this, if George hasn’t told them about it himself. Last thing he’d mentioned that Owen remembers about England was being annoyed about being cut for the World Cup, and that was ages ago. “He’s good, though.”

“Yeah, he’s good, but he never seemed like he was fully focused,” Sean says with a sigh. “I tried to talk to him about whatever was going on with him, but he wasn’t having any of it.”

“I could try?” Owen suggests, knowing that he’s likely to do no such thing. If it gets the England captain off George’s back, though, he’s willing to give it a shot.

“That’d be helpful, lad, thanks,” Sean says, patting him on the shoulder. “Now, we’ve got to go, but look after yourself, alright? Say hi to your mum from me.”

Owen fervently promises to do so, and then Sean and his teammates are off again, trudging across the pitch to the tunnel. Digging into George’s personal stuff, no matter what it was that knocked him off his stride during camp, feels a bit unnecessary. They’re all talking to professionals at this point; he doesn’t know if he’d be able to help much.

Once he’s climbed back over the seats to Jamie and Elliot, they’re both on their phones. “Alright, boys?” he asks, clucking his tongue to get their attention.

“Yup,” Elliot says, turning his phone off. “Just messaging George, seeing if he’s okay, that’s all.”

“Oh, right,” Owen says. He shouldn’t have assumed, clearly.

“How long do you reckon he’s going to be?” Jamie asks. “Half an hour? I might freeze.”

“That’s because you didn’t bring a jumper,” Elliot chides him. “It’s June, but it’s also ten at night. Of course you’re cold.”

“Go and run a lap of the stands or something,” Owen says, eyes fixed on the tunnel. Somewhere back there, George is probably being massaged and pummelled and generally put in pain by a physio. He wants to help, not be a passive bystander.

(It’s not like he can do anything about the physical pain, but he can talk to George and try and help in that way.)

When he’s thought himself out of reasonable ways to help George, he turns to see Elliot and Jamie running around at the top of the lower tier of stands, about thirty metres away. Jamie looks warm from the exercise, which is good. No more whinging, and-

He looks around quickly. Almost all the other fans have emptied out by now, so he can watch the two of them kissing without having to be ready to intercept anyone with bad intentions. The pair of them aren’t famous enough to have made a mark in the consciousness of most rugby league fans, unlike Owen, so it’s probably safe for them to be making out in the deserted stands. Still, it’s risky. Owen wouldn’t put himself in their place if he was paid.

Staring at two of his best friends snogging isn’t great either, so he spins back round and shoves his hands in his pockets. More power to them, but it’s not for him. PDA in general isn’t great, but with a guy? Absolutely not.

It doesn’t take too long before George texts to say that he’s in the carpark. The three of them have been moved on from the seating so Jamie’s running around with Elliot on his back on the outer concourse while Owen looks on and tries to make sense of his feelings.

“Lads, time to go!” he shouts, pointing towards the carpark. Jamie nods, and zooms off with Elliot laughing madly. They’re strange guys, but he’s glad to see them enjoying themselves. He’s glad to call them his friends.

He follows them round to the carpark, the twilight giving way to the glare of streetlights bouncing off the few cars still left. His suspicions had been right – George has some kind of sling on his left arm, kitbag resting on the floor between his feet.

Owen doesn’t hesitate to interrupt, barging between Jamie and Elliot to get to George. “You okay?” he asks urgently.

George lifts his good shoulder in a half shrug. “Could be better. It’s just a precaution, but – yeah. Not fantastic.” He sounds tired, and Owen ruffles his hair in sympathy.

“Want me to drive? I swear I’m a safer driver than those two.” He ignores the indignant squawks of protest from the others: this is about George, not them. They can deal with it for a few hours.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” George says, tossing the keys to him with his good arm.

“Five gears, right?” he says as he swings George’s kitbag into the footwell of the passenger seat.

“We can’t all have big six-gear cars, mate,” George responds. “It’s big enough for me, and that’s what matters.”

Owen raises his hands. “I said nothing about the type of car! I just didn’t want to put it into reverse on a fast road, that’s all.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Jamie calls from the back seat, but they ignore him.

“Thanks for checking,” George murmurs, “but I trust you. You’ll be fine.”

Owen’s chest feels warm. “Thanks, mate. Just stay awake, or we might get lost.”

“Might?” Jamie squeaks. “You’ve got a 0% success rate!”

Again, Owen ignores him, instead putting the car into gear and pulling away. It is smaller than his usual car, he has to concede, but a car’s a car. He’ll be fine.

As he’d hoped, George manages to keep his eyes open for the whole journey home. It’s a short enough trip, especially without accidental deviations, so he’s still awake when Owen parks on the drive.

“Need a hand getting out?” he asks. He wouldn’t usually denigrate George’s capabilities like that, but he’s looking – floppy, is probably the best word for it. “Did they give you any painkillers?”

“Just a few,” George mumbles, flapping his good hand towards the kitbag.

“Alright,” Owen says, making eye contact with Jamie. “Me and Jinx will help you out, and then we’ll go from there once you’re inside, yeah?”

George nods muzzily, so Owen takes the initiative and loops his arm around George’s back in support. “Get the bag,” he whispers to Elliot as he levers George to his feet, letting Jamie take some of the weight. He’s surprisingly heavy for his size, but then again he isn’t doing any of the work. “Come on, buddy, let’s get you in.”

Either they mixed up the doses or George was in a lot more pain than he’d been letting on, given the way he slumps onto the sofa once they let go of his arms. “Cup of tea?” Elliot asks from the doorway. “It says here that you’re not meant to have any more of the medication for the next three hours.”

George nods sleepily, curling into the cushions. Owen drapes a blanket over him and retreats to the kitchen with the other two, once he’s sure George isn’t going to suffocate or wake himself up by rolling over onto his bad side.

“Whatever they gave him really knocked him out,” Owen says quietly once he’s closed the door behind him. George isn’t likely to wake up, the state he’s in, but he doesn’t want to disrupt any rest he might be able to get. He looks like he needs it.

Elliot nods glumly. “You know that rib injury I had, back in the day? It’s the same stuff. It’s not nice. He’s going to have a killer headache and no energy when he wakes up, if he reacts anything like the way I did.”

“Good thing we’re here, then,” Jamie says, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “We can keep tabs on him – three hours, you said?” Elliot nods. “Well, I don’t mind getting up then to give him some.”

Owen chews on his lip. “I’m meant to be sleeping on that sofa, though – I’ll stay up.”

Elliot nods. “I guess you don’t want to be sleeping in his bed if he doesn’t know about it. That’s a bit odd.”

“It’s fine,” Owen says, biting at a nail. “You’re supposed to be driving day after next, anyway – and El’s rubbish at keeping himself awake past midnight. I’ll be fine.”

“If you say so,” Jamie concedes, while Elliot doesn’t bother to defend himself. Without a lot of alcohol, he’s usually gone by eleven – and it’s getting pretty close to that time already. “I’ll get up at four, though – you’re not staying awake all night.”

Owen’s about to say that he’s fine doing it by himself, but something stops him. If Jamie’s just as worried as he is, then it would be worse for both of them – him not sleeping for twenty-four hours straight, Jamie not sleeping properly because he doesn’t know how George is doing – for him to prevent Jamie from seeing George for himself.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll do the first couple of hours, and then you can tell me when you’re up, and I’ll go to sleep.”

“It’s fine if you want to sleep in Jamie’s spot when he’s up,” Elliot offers. “No homo, you know.”

Owen smiles. He can feel the tiredness creeping up on him. “Alright, mate, thanks. See you in a bit.”

The two of them hug him as they traipse out of the kitchen, kettle boiling just at the moment he’s left by himself. Scrap the tea idea, he decides. He needs coffee for this – there’s another two and a half hours to go, and he can’t even stare out of the window this time.

It’s for George, though. He doesn’t mind.

The minutes tick past. Owen’s increasingly sleepy and jittery with the passage of time, jolting himself back to consciousness when he veers too close to sleep. George’s soft snuffling on the other sofa doesn’t help, but he can’t exactly wake him up to make him stop.

He can tell it’s nearing the three-hour mark because George’s whiffles are more like whimpers of pain. He’s shifting around under the blanket, face screwed up and knuckles white where they’re tucked up by his face. Owen can’t wake him up or give him the medication early – he just has to sit and watch his friend in pain. It’s awful.

Still, his phone screen finally shows that it’s one in the morning, and he gets up to find the drugs and fill a glass of water. He’s not sure if George takes his tablets with water, but he’s not keeping him awake while he faffs around trying to get a drink for him.

Even though he’s only been in George’s house for a couple of days, and with the man himself present and conscious for a fraction of the time, it feels natural to go through to the kitchen and instinctively know which cupboard holds the glasses and where Elliot will have put the medication. It’s probably not the decoration – although that’s lovely – but something else, though Owen can’t quite pin down what.

Once he’s ready, he goes back to the living room. A single lamp light is turned on at the far side of the room from George, so he’s sure the shock of being woken in the middle of the night won’t be worsened by the lighting.

“Georgie,” he murmurs, crouching down by his friend’s head. He’s wincing a little and mumbling a lot, so he must be almost awake anyway. “George, love, you need to wake up.” Carefully, he sets the water down on the floor and reaches for George’s shoulder. He gives it a shake. “Come on, mate. Time for some more painkillers.”

George slowly returns to consciousness, groaning and turning to bury his face in the blanket when he sees Owen waiting with the tablets. “It’ll make it feel better,” Owen cajoles. He feels bad for tugging the blanket from George’s grip, but there’s not much he can do about it. It’s for George’s own benefit, after all.

After thirty seconds more of resistance, George seems to give up, slumping down against the cushion and glaring at Owen balefully. “Shoulder fucking hurts,” he grumbles, and Owen nods.

“That’s why you need to take these tablets,” he says. There’s no way George is going to be able to drink safely while half-lying down, so he wraps his arms around George’s waist to lever him upright. “Yep, up like that. Good lad.” He hands George the glass and leaves the tablets on the arm of the sofa. “You think you can take it like that?”

George nods, sighing. “I guess. Don’t – don’t watch, please.” He nods obediently and faces away. He’s not going to leave George alone, in case he chokes on a tablet or something equally stupid, but he can at least give him some privacy.

A couple of gulping noises later, George says, “I’m done.”

Owen turns back round, taking the empty cup from George’s hand. “Alright, good job. Do you want anything else?”

“Hug?” George asks pathetically. “It hurts like hell.”

Owen pulls a sympathetic face. How is he supposed to deny a man in pain, and one of his best friends at that? He lifts up a corner of the blanket and slides in next to George. It’s not the easiest of hugging positions – wrapping his arms around George’s shoulders is obviously not an option, but sticking an arm between George’s back and the sofa will be uncomfortable for both of them.

“Stop thinking about it,” George grouses. He takes Owen’s arm and loops it round his waist, tucking his own head into Owen’s shoulder. “There. That’s better.”

Owen pets at his hair. He can’t really do anything else, especially when Jamie’s meant to be coming and relieving him soon. Never mind – if this is what George wants, then he’s going to do it for him. That’s what friends are for.

(He’s not sure he’d stay up all night and cuddle with Elliot or Jamie if they asked, but that’s by the by.)

Within a few minutes, both George and Owen’s arm are asleep. He hasn’t got a chance of extracting himself before Jamie comes down for his shift at four, so he takes the easy way out and lets himself sleep too. He’s been awake for almost twenty-four hours straight: he can take a few minutes or hours to catch up on sleep himself.

It’s still dark when he jolts awake, although some light is creeping around the edges of the curtains to illuminate Jamie, bending over him and poking his arm. “Alright, Faz?” he murmurs.

Owen nods, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand. “Yeah. What time is it?”

“Five,” Jamie says. “I suppose you didn’t give him the four am dose, looking at you?”

Owen shakes his head. To be fair to him, George seems more settled now he’s resting against Owen’s chest than he had done before; the amount of wriggling going on has definitely reduced. He’s pleased he could help him in that way, although his arm is getting more uncomfortable by the second.

“I’ll go and get the medication,” Jamie whispers as he backs out of the room.

It’s up to him to wake George, then. He starts by stroking George’s hair, hoping the movement will trigger something in his drug- and pain-induced fuzziness. “Come on, mate, time to wake up,” he mutters. “Time for some more painkillers.”

George doesn’t wake up, instead shifting to press even more closely against him and wrapping his bad arm round Owen’s waist as well. If he wasn’t feeling like a teddy bear before, he does now.

“Up, Georgie,” he says, more urgently now. He doesn’t seem to be in too much pain, but he needs to take the tablets regardless. “George, please.”

Mumbling incoherently, George half-opens his eyes. “What?”

Owen smiles at him, pats his cheek. It’s fine, he tells himself, George will never remember this happening. “Time for some more tablets, mate. Just a couple, and then you can go back to sleep. It’s Jamie’s turn now.”

George grabs Owen’s hand where it’s still pressed against his face. “No Jamie,” he grumbles. “Just you.”

“I need to go to bed, mate,” he says. Thank God Jamie isn’t here to witness this. “Jamie’s good for cuddles too, I promise.” George makes a disbelieving noise and snuggles further into the mass of blankets.

That’s when Jamie walks in – nothing incriminating going on, just George apparently asleep and face-planted into Owen’s lap through several layers of blankets. “Is he awake?”

“He was a second ago,” Owen answers, poking at George’s side. “Come on, mate, don’t make this harder for us.”

With a grunt, George pulls himself upright, half sat on Owen’s leg. “Water’s here,” Jamie says, “and I’m putting the tablets on the stool, alright?” George nods blearily. “Now, can you let Faz out? He needs to go to bed for a bit too.”

George takes the meds and the glass, moving sideways so he’s somehow even further onto Owen’s lap. He swallows down the tablets, then hands the glass off to Jamie.

“Move across a little, Georgie?” Owen asks, pushing at his waist in vain. “Some of us haven’t been asleep all night, you know.”

George shakes his head, a petulant child, and Owen closes his eyes in exasperation. Cuddling with George is nice, but he’s acutely aware of how tired he is now, especially with Jamie standing and watching both of them.

“Come on, George,” Jamie says brusquely. “We need to swap, or we’re going to be in worse shape than you in the morning, and that’s saying something.”

George grumbles, but shifts a tiny amount to the left. “Thanks, mate,” Owen says, shoving him (gently!) all the way off his lap. “Sleep well, okay, and don’t be too mean to Jamie. It’s not his fault he’s not me.”

Jamie gives him a whack on the head for his troubles, but he doesn’t mind too much. He’s free to sleep in an actual bed now – he could take most things right now. “Sweet dreams, our kid,” he says, patting George on the head. Then he’s free to sleep, and he can’t wait.

Getting into bed with a sleeping Elliot isn’t too bad – it’s the waking up that has the potential t be awkward. Elliot’s phone alarm goes off at eight, and Owen’s barely blinked open his eyes when Elliot’s shoving his face into his chest and mumbling, “Turn it off, baby.”

“Not Jamie,” he says, though he turns off the alarm on the bedside table anyway.

Elliot scoots back half a metre. “Shit, sorry, mate. Thought you were Jinx. Is George doing alright?”

“Last thing I knew, and they would have woken us up if anything was wrong,” Owen says confidently. “The meds run out at lunchtime anyway, so we’re nearly done.”

Elliot nods, eyes still half-closed. “I feel bad for not doing anything to help, but – fuck, I’m knackered.”

“Want a hug?” Owen offers. He’s not willing to get out of their nice warm bed to check on the other two at this exact second, but he wouldn’t mind a hug to reassure him. If he’s missing George, then Elliot must surely be missing Jamie.

“Mm, thanks, mate,” Elliot says. He snuggles into Owen’s outstretched arms, closing his eyes again with a yawn. It’s nice to have the physical contact with someone else, but somehow it doesn’t feel the same as with George. He’s technically warm because Elliot’s wrapped around him like an octopus, but the cosy feeling in his chest is strangely absent.

They must fall asleep again, because Owen’s woken – for the second time that day – by Jamie poking him. “Rise and shine, sleeping beauties,” he trills, yanking the curtains open. Owen turns his head away, burying his face in Elliot’s hair to avoid the bright sunlight.

“Nah, seriously, get up,” Jamie continues. “I’m bored as fuck, George is probably going to sleep until tomorrow at this rate, and you look far too comfortable.” Owen shakes his head, eyes screwed shut. Maybe Elliot should get up, having had the only full night’s sleep of any of them, but he’d pulled a long shift on the sofa with George. He shouldn’t have to wake up at this uncivilised time.

“It’s ten in the morning!” Jamie complains, putting shot to that idea. “Look, if you’re not up in the next five minutes, I’ll pull the duvet off you.”

Elliot whines. “Jamie, I love you. Don’t do it, please.”

A harrumph from across the room. “That changes nothing, you lazy sod. Get up and entertain me.”

Owen doesn’t move a muscle, although he can feel Elliot inching his way to the edge of the mattress. If he’s going to give in to Jamie’s threats, that’s on him. Owen’s been a good carer – he deserves a rest.

The five minutes passes in the blink of an eye (or it would if his eyes were open), and Jamie counts down the last ten seconds cheerfully. “Okay, Fazlet, you’ve been warned!” He just has time to cover his eyes with his hand when Jamie rips the covers away. For all that it’s June, it’s bloody chilly without the duvet, and he scrunches up into a little ball.

“Come here, love,” he hears Elliot murmur. “Warm me up, go on.”

“Not with Faz here,” Jamie whispers back, and Owen rolls out of bed. He’s not sticking around for whatever they’ve got planned. Besides, George might need him.

He grabs his hoodie from the previous night off the floor and pulls it on as he goes downstairs. He needs coffee before he has to deal with anything else – _especially_ Jamie and Elliot trying to start their friends with benefits thing while he was still in the room, probably on the bed he’d just slept in.

Having stuck his head through to the living room to check George is still breathing, he makes himself a cup of coffee and some toast, knocking back his antidepressants while he remembers. He could eat in the kitchen by himself, but it’s also right underneath the spare bedroom – no thanks.

Owen goes into the living room, sitting down on the sofa opposite George. He’s back lying down, drooling onto the cushions in an oddly endearing manner. Owen’s not watching him sleep (apart from the part where he very much is), but his friend’s cute enough to override any residual sense of shame he might still have.

He works his way through the toast and the coffee, feeling able to open his eyes fully after about twenty minutes. The blanket tucked around George’s body is rising and falling steadily, so he’s reassured. If George isn’t about to suffocate or drop dead in the next five minutes, maybe he can have a shower before the next lot of tablets need to be done at eleven.

(He can’t imagine Jamie will be ready to do it, given the strange, cut-off noises coming from upstairs. He’s happy for them, but also – do they have to do it right now?)

While he’s deliberating over the best course of action, he decides to wash up – it’s productive while also killing time, which is always good in Owen’s book. There’s only really a few mugs and the plates from his and Jamie’s breakfasts, but he likes to be useful.

Elliot appears as he’s stacking the last cup on the draining board, so he leaves the water in the bowl and retreats to the living room once more. If they weren’t doing – that – then Elliot’s suspiciously rumpled, and he also hasn’t had a wash that Owen’s heard. Good for them, but he’s not all about that.

George is back in a more mobile phase of sleep, twitching every couple of seconds and wrapping the blankets increasingly tightly around himself. Owen wants to go and untangle them, but knowing his luck, one of the others would come in and start making comments again. It’s a Saturday morning, he’s been up half the night, and George is injured. He doesn’t need snarky remarks today.

The hour hand on the clock slowly swings round to eleven. It’s probably the tiredness talking, but he can’t help noticing how small and well put together the clock is, much like its owner. Compact, cute, gets the job done – that’s George in a nutshell.

He yawns. For himself as much as George, he hopes their sleep schedules will be back to normal by the evening. Jamie’s driving back, not him, but he doesn’t want any suspicious questions from Georgie when he gets home. Somehow, he doesn’t think ‘I was looking after my best friend who had a shoulder injury which just happened to involve cuddling with him for hours and then sleeping in a bed with my other best friend’ is going to cut it as an excuse.

The sound of the shower turning on startles him from his thoughts. _At least Jamie has some common sense_ , he thinks, before getting up to find the medication and a clean glass.

As is routine by this point, Owen gently peels back the blankets, murmuring quietly to wake George up gently, instead of scaring him into jumping and hurting himself more.

“Owen?” George asks, blinking owlishly at him.

“Painkillers,” he says, shakes the box as an explanation. “How’s the shoulder?”

George screws up his face. “Hurts. Check-up at the club at four – it’s in my bag.”

“Okay, mate.” Owen tries to keep his cool. Why hadn’t any of them registered that as a possibility before? “Drugs for now, yeah, and then we’ll sort the check-up.”

George seems mollified by that, and sits up and takes the tablets with very little fuss. He’s relieved – this appointment has messed with his established idea of what would be happening today more than he’d care to admit.

“Good job, flower,” he murmurs as George snuggles back down into the sofa. “Do you want me to wake you up for lunch?” George just nods, eyes already closed and breathing evening out.

Owen gives himself two minutes to pull himself together and for Jamie and Elliot to finish whatever it is they might be doing, and then goes upstairs. He stops off in George’s room first – the kitbag had been dumped right by the door, so he doesn’t have to intrude too far. He roots around a little, finding a scrunched-up piece of paper between George’s muddy boots.

Straightening it out, he sees that George had been right. It’s not his fault that he was too out of it last night to remember, and at least he mentioned it before four and not after. Owen goes along the landing to the spare room with no small amount of trepidation.

“Lads?” he asks, knocking on the door. “Are you decent?” He hears Jamie snort, and assumes it’s safe to go in.

“Did you do the meds for eleven?” Jamie asks. “I was going to, but I was a little… side-tracked, let’s say.”

“Yes, I did, but that’s not the issue,” Owen says. It must just be because he’s tired, that this is affecting him so much. He’s taken his antidepressants and eaten decently enough, so lack of sleep is the only reason he can come up with – that, and because it’s George lying conked out on the sofa. “He’s got a check-up with the team doctors at four, so one of us needs to take him.”

“Where? I’m fine to do it, seen as you two are dead on your feet,” Elliot says, cross-legged on the bed.

“It’s over in Cowley, according to this.” Owen passes over the paper. “It’s not too far from here.”

“Alright,” Elliot says. “That’s fine. You two can have a nice long nap, and I’ll drag sleeping beauty to wherever this place is.”

Owen nods, breaking into a yawn halfway through. Just the mention of a nap is bad enough, so he’s excited at the prospect of actually having one.

He’s so knackered that he manages to sleep through the whole of lunch, Elliot getting George into the car, the car driving off, Elliot getting George back into the house, and Elliot making and serving tea.

“Wuh?” he mumbles, when he opens his eyes to Elliot shaking his shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“Time for dinner – or tea, for you,” Elliot says with a grin. “You’ve been asleep all afternoon, but everything’s fine, so don’t worry.”

He looks over to the other sofa on instinct. George isn’t there, and he looks at Elliot. “Where’s he-?”

“In the kitchen with Jamie, don’t worry,” Elliot says, ruffling his hair. “It’s all under control.”

Owen pats his hair back into position. He shouldn’t have slept for that long – Jamie must have been asleep too, and leaving Elliot to do everything wasn’t fair.

“You’re doing your best,” Elliot says, like he can tell what path Owen’s thoughts are going down. “You were a big help during the night, and now I’m returning the favour. Now, come on – time for tea.”

With a yawn, he pushes himself off the sofa to follow Elliot to the kitchen. Whatever he’s cooked smells incredible, especially after only eating some pasta and toast in the last twenty-four hours.

“Hey, Owen,” George says as he walks in. He’s propped up against the wall, a small plate of lasagne in front of him.

Owen’s right there. “Hi, Georgie,” he murmurs, giving him a careful hug. “How’s it going?” He’d get a more coherent answer out of one of the others, for sure, but he wants to talk to George.

“Ow,” George says, pointing to his shoulder and then his head. “No more painkillers.”

Owen looks over to Elliot, not releasing his grip on George.

“What he said,” Elliot shrugs, taking his seat at the table, “Some kind of ligament sprain, I think. The medication’s too addictive for him to have any more for the time being, so we’ve just got to ride it out.”

Owen rubs his cheek against George’s hair – he’d kiss it, if the others weren’t there – and sits down next to him. “Good thing we were here, then.”

Even though he rationally knows that George is doing okay, or well enough, given the circumstances, he doesn’t want to leave his side. He sticks with him the whole evening, when he’s slumped against Owen’s side and tucked under his arm, and when he needs a hand getting in the shower because he’s all sweaty from tossing and turning for hours on end.

(He doesn’t look when George is in the shower – he has some self-restraint. His upper back is mostly obscured by the steam of the shower anyway, and Owen makes sure his eyes don’t drop too low. They wouldn’t be in this situation if George had any other options, he’s certain.)

Once he’s helped George get dressed into his pyjamas – he mostly needs help getting shirts on and off, with the reduced mobility of his left shoulder – he leads him down the stairs. That way, if George were to fall, Owen could catch him, or at least reduce the impact a little.

Jamie’s found the 2013 Lions tour DVD – “Lions Raw – you can tell a load of straights made this” – and put it on while Owen was helping George get himself sorted. It’s weird, catching glimpses of himself on the television, especially in the more relaxed moments of downtime. He remembers the matches, or he can reconstruct them in his head with the help of match reports, but the little things have mostly gone from his head.

Still, he has George as a warm, slumbering presence against his side to distract him. When it’s all getting too much – when he’s talking to Andy on screen in a training session – he links George’s fingers with his own. It grounds him, syncing their breathing so he can slow his own. He’s not – he doesn’t mind the lost memories as much anymore, but it’s the thought of what he could have said or done that he has no recollection of that stresses him out.

Two years have passed, almost exactly, but he can’t stop wondering what his Lions teammates thought of him. The editors of the documentary must have realised that he wasn’t the most interesting person in camp so he’s not in it much, but he’s unnervingly quiet in the scenes he does feature in. Obviously 2017 is a long way away, but what are these guys going to think if they have to play him again? What do they think of him now, when they see him playing for England, or Saracens?

It’s the uncertainty that scares the shit out of him.

“You good, Faz?” Elliot asks, looking over at him with concern, just as the music’s building for them to run out for the third Test. “We can turn it off, if you’d rather.”

“No, it’s okay,” he says faintly. “I’ll just – cup of tea?” Both of them accept, and he extricates himself from George’s grip with no small amount of difficulty.

Once he gets into the kitchen, kettle on to boil, he allows himself a moment to breathe. He braces himself against the counter, head hanging low between his shoulders. He’s fine. He’s doing okay. These things happened. They’re in the past, and he can’t change them. Maybe he can address the issues his past self caused (through no fault of his own!) if he gets on the Lions tour, but for now, it doesn’t really matter.

The guys who know what’s going on, who matter – yes, he’s currently hiding from them in the kitchen, but they will listen. They’ll try to understand. It’s going to be okay. 2013 was shit, and 2014 was better, and 2015 has been a bit of both so far. Hopefully it’ll continue on the same upward trend, but – he’s not going to jinx it like that.

For now, in this moment, he’s okay. He can’t ask for any more than that.

Once he’s splashed some water on his face and wiped his eyes and actually made the tea, he carries it through on a little tray. Jamie and Elliot charitably don’t mention how much his hands are shaking, and he takes his cup and retreats to the safety of his and George’s sofa. He’s okay.

Jamie must have fast-forwarded through some of the scenes, because he only watches another five minutes. It’s the packing up shots and talking heads – Andy pops up for a tense thirty seconds, and everyone in the room visibly tightens up – and then it’s over.

“There are some league repeats on, if you fancy that,” Elliot says, looking up from his phone. “Castleford against Catalans?”

Owen shakes his head. Even with George tucked up against him, for all intents and purposes like an oversized cat, he doesn’t really want to immerse himself in rugby. It’s all a bit too close to home for him. Instead, he’d rather distance himself for a while, as much as he can with World Cup camp starting in just over a week.

It’s about balance, he’s learned recently, and George’s presence helps him to – not distract himself, exactly, but move on from the weekend’s match faster. He can enjoy the win or be annoyed about the loss, and then move forwards into the new week. It might seem stupid, avoiding the pressures of his rugby union career at his league-playing mate’s house, but it works, and that’s what counts.

Jamie switches the TV onto some action film and, from the look he gives Owen, he’s reminded of the same occasion. “Have you told El about Christmas yet, Faz?” he asks, widening his eyes slightly in case Owen hasn’t got the message.

“Yeah, the other day, while we were washing up,” he says, trying to keep it casual. They all know what they’re talking about except George, who seems to be most of the way asleep again. He’s not sure why he doesn’t want George to know about it – it’s not betrayal, and Elliot wasn’t angry about it, so George has no right to be – but he’s hesitant to mention it in front of him.

“Was he any good?” Elliot asks archly.

“Who, me or him?” Jamie replies, playing dumb.

“Faz, obviously,” Elliot says, rolling his eyes. “I know what you’re like.”

Jamie smirks. “I don’t kiss and tell, darling.”

Elliot huffs, though he’s grinning. “Shame. You’d never know what we got up to last night.”

“Yeah, the square root of fuck all was what you two got up to – I was awake, you know.”

“You mean you genuinely won’t tell me?” Elliot pouts. “That hurts, Jamie.”

Owen screws up his courage. “No, go on, mate. I want to know.”

Jamie gives him a confused look. “You could just ask your actual girlfriend, if you’re that bothered. She must have a bigger sample size than me – or something’s really wrong with your relationship.”

He stiffens, still careful not to disturb George. Jamie knows nothing about his and Georgie’s relationship, but it touches a nerve. They’re not less affectionate than they used to be, there’s just more distance between them. He’s not going to be at home for months on end very soon, and she’s scheduled her girls’ holiday in the fortnight before he’s meant to leave. He’s half sure that she hadn’t done it on purpose, but he’s not confident enough to ask.

Elliot says what he’d been thinking. “Love, don’t talk about stuff you don’t anything about. That’s between Faz and Georgie. Now, come on – give me all the gory details!”

“You alright with it, Faz?” Jamie checks, not continuing until Owen’s nodded his permission. He does want to know, in a funny kind of way. “I mean, it wasn’t bad. Like, you could tell it was his first kiss with a guy, you know? He was more – restrained, I guess. Not as much tongue as you like, El,” he adds with a wink. “I’m not saying it was boring, mate. It was just that neither of us were properly into it.”

“What, and it would be better if it was?” He knows the answer, but he sometimes wants to have it spelled out for him. Mick’s good at that sort of thing – speaking of which, he needs to schedule his appointments for during camp. Given some of the people he’s going to be cheek by jowl with for sixteen weeks, it’s going to be necessary. But that’s by the by – Jamie’s talking again.

“Well, yeah,” Jamie says and shrugs. “I’d be more into it if I was kissing Elliot, and you’d be more into it if you were getting with George – sorry, Georgie.”

“Freudian slip, eh?” Elliot says, raising his eyebrows.

“Buddy, neither of us know what that means,” Jamie says. “We’re not all intellectuals round here.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Elliot says. Owen’s intrigued, though. If it’s some kind of joke about Georgie and George – not that it hasn’t been pointed out to him before, at great length – he wants to understand. He files the phrase away for later research.

Elliot and Jamie descend into their usual language of inside jokes and obscure references from their days in the Midlands regional team, and Owen zones out. He’s so tired, in spite of the nap he had earlier. He could fall asleep right here on the sofa, although his back wouldn’t thank him for two consecutive nights in a row not in a bed.

“Bedtime for the kids?” Jamie asks, a while later. Owen prises his eyes open, nods. “Alright. Me and El can get Georgie boy up the stairs if you want to brush your teeth and get changed.”

Owen starts to answer, but his words are cut off by a yawn. He tries again. “Thanks, lads. I’ll just get my pillow and stuff and bring it back down once George is in bed.”

Elliot scoffs. “Mate, you’re never sleeping down here. Your joints will be cracking the whole of tomorrow.”

He shrugs. “It’s not like I have a choice.”

George shifts again him, and he instantly freezes. “Don’t have a choice about what?” George asks, words slurred with sleep.

“Where I’m sleeping,” he says quickly. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.”

George looks up at him balefully. “Yeah, right. Come and sleep with me – there’s space for both of us.”

Owen looks to Jamie and Elliot for reassurance. Finding none, he says awkwardly, “I don’t want to get in your way. Anyway, you’re injured. You need all the space you can get.”

George huffs, half-hearted, and then winces at the jolt it gives to his shoulder. “I’m not exactly a giant, and it’s a double bed. It’ll be fine. I don’t want you to get all stiff and uncomfortable either.”

“You can’t say no to the walking wounded,” Jamie chimes in.

“Yeah, it’ll be detrimental to his recovery,” Elliot adds. Owen glares at the pair of them. He doesn’t know why it’s their new conspiracy to get him and George into the same bed, and he doesn’t appreciate the effort. The sofa might have been mildly unbearable, but that’s not good enough justification in his book to hop into bed with his best friend.

“You slept in the same bed as Elliot – why is this any different?” Jamie asks, with a smugness that shows he knows he’s landed the decisive blow.

“What’s wrong with me?” George says in a quiet voice, and Owen’s instantly changing his mind.

“Shit, nothing, mate. I just didn’t want you to be in pain, that’s all. Elliot wasn’t injured, so I could shove him over to the side and steal all the duvet without worrying about him.” It’s not the most convincing excuse he’s ever come up with, but he is slightly panicking.

George smiles, apparently easily convinced in his aching state. “Oh, okay. You ready to go up now?”

“Might as well,” he says tightly. Elliot and Jamie are going to make a thing of this, and it’s already a big enough deal in his own head, for some unfathomable reason. Jamie had been right – technically, it’s no different to what he’d done last night. It’s just that it’s George. It’s throwing him off, and he can’t work out why.

George holds out his good hand for Owen to help him up. He pulls him to his feet, not wrapping his hand around George’s waist like he might have done earlier. He needs to recover and not be babied, he tells himself. George will have to cope by himself soon enough, so he should ease him back into it sooner rather than later.

“Sweet dreams, boys,” Jamie calls after them as they go up the stairs. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite!”

“I don’t have bedbugs,” George mumbles.

“I’m sure you don’t,” Owen reassures him, grabbing his pyjamas and toothbrush out of his bag and hustling to the bathroom before George has a chance to get there first.

He washes his face with cold water, wipes the excess over the veins of his wrists. It’s something his mum taught him ages ago when he was a kid, for the hottest days of preseason training. He hasn’t been put through the wringer in quite the same way tonight, though the racing of his heart suggests otherwise.

The moisture has evaporated almost entirely from his skin by the time he feels calm enough to unlock the door and venture out onto the landing. George is loitering outside for his turn, already changed into a faded Bradford training shirt and shorts. It looks soft, but obviously Owen isn’t going to touch. It’s like Elliot had said the night before – no homo. He’ll get through this, one way or another.

He doesn’t know what to do with himself while he waits for George to come in. He’s not going to wait in bed, because that would be weird, but hovering by the window like he is – also weird. In the end, he crouches down and pretends to be fiddling with something in his rucksack while George finishes in the bathroom.

He’s so absorbed in the pretence that he jumps when George turns the main light off. The small bedside lamp is on, casting the bedroom in a soft glow. It’s almost uncomfortably intimate – he’d take the sofa over this any day.

“I’m on the left,” George says. Owen nods, climbing on the right side of the bed. George had been right; there’s enough space for them both to sprawl out without touching, though he wouldn’t mind if they did. “Okay if I turn the light off?”

“Yep,” Owen says, voice husky. “Fine by me.”

They’re plunged into darkness. He’s acutely aware of George’s breathing beside him, the shifting of his body transmitted to Owen through the mattress. It’s a good thing they’re both so tired, or he would be up into the early hours trying not to stress out about his proximity to George.

It’s not something they’ve ever done before, in all the years of knowing each other. If they’d been the type of kids who’d had sleepovers, maybe they would have, but no. Owen didn’t like inviting people round to his house for obvious reasons, and George had other friends his own age in both Wigan and Harpenden.

Still, it’s warm and quiet and infinitely better than having a kip on the sofa. He’s not going to make a habit of it – and he’s never telling Georgie about this – but it’s surprisingly relaxing once he’s sure that George is asleep. Cuddling would be out of the question, but having someone he cares about nearby is reassuring. Even with Jamie and Elliot’s murbling coming up through the floorboards, it’s nice.

(He’s never telling Georgie, and he’s going to try his hardest not to think about why he might prefer sleeping next to George over his girlfriend. That’s not the kind of thing to consider in the middle of the night, or preferably ever.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this mega update - let me know what you thought in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


	47. Chapter 47

The next week is spent trying desperately not to think about George while he’s with Georgie, and vice versa when he calls George to check in on his shoulder injury. The side effects of the medication had worn off by the time they’d gone home on the Sunday, but he’s still out for a couple of weeks while the ligaments in his shoulder heal.

Georgie’s not overly pleased, but then when is she? Owen brings her flowers and cooks tea every day and does his level best not to feel like he’s apologising for some awful transgression, but it makes no difference. She sends him off to Pennyhill Park with a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, and that’s that.

(It would be easier to understand her emotional detachment – the emotional detachment on both sides, really – if she was cheating on him. At least then he wouldn’t be so guilty and nervous about bringing up George in every conceivable conversation. He’s not doing it on purpose.)

All in all, the beginning of World Cup camp is more of a relief than anything. Although he’d been worried about how he’d fare in the pressurised environment, especially after what happened in the autumn internationals, it’s oddly relaxing to be able to spend all his time with two of his best friends and a few others in the guise of team bonding. Elliot brings Joe Launchbury with him, some of the Saracens drop in from time to time, and a good time is had by all.

It helps that Owen’s sharing a room with Elliot – something about one of the more senior and experienced players helping a newbie settle in, which he won’t stop reminding Elliot of. The private space makes it easier for Jamie and Elliot to have some alone time for their _friends with benefits who are completely overinvested in each other_ situation. Owen’s happy to hang out with Ben for a couple of hours every few days to provide that space for them, and they both seem much more relaxed for it.

“You know, I always thought playing for England would be horrendous,” Jamie says one night, lying on Elliot’s bed while his best/boyfriend plays with his hair. “Like, all that unrelenting pressure and awful training, but it’s been fun so far.”

Owen doesn’t bring up the fact that he hasn’t technically played for England yet. Training’s all well and good, but he needs to experience the pointy end of it all before he gets too settled.

“Is it because I’m here?” Elliot asks, fluttering his eyelashes.

“Of course,” Jamie says. He tugs at Elliot’s wrist and kisses the back of his hand. “But seriously, I thought it would be training every hour of the day and being screamed at for dropping the ball even once.”

“You’ve got good timing, then,” Owen says before he can stop himself. He’s not bitter about his first few years playing for the national team – he just got there before all his friends did, and had to find his feet by himself as a result.

Jamie looks chastened. “Look, I know I’m lucky as hell, what with Dylan’s ban and all that, but I want to enjoy it while I’m here. I don’t want to be in a Jonny Wilkinson situation, as good as he was.”

Owen bites his lip. What’s wrong with Jonny? He’s admired the guy for years, had his poster on the wall when he was a kid – and now Jamie seems to think there’s something up with him.

“What situation?” Elliot asks. Clearly he’s just as confused as Owen.

“With all the depression and anxiety and perfectionism,” Jamie says, like it’s obvious. He rolls onto his side to face Owen. “You read his book, didn’t you, mate? It’s basically the main theme – shitty mental health.”

“I did,” Owen says, “but…” He knows he read it because it’s sat on the singular bookshelf in his house, but he can’t remember much of the detail. Hard work and sacrifice were the main parts that stuck out for him.

“Oh, right,” Jamie says. “That was in the ‘lost year’, wasn’t it?” He does air quotes around the words, which doesn’t make him feel any better about it. “In short – he was really stressed about performing well since he was a kid, and he never really got out of it. He was throwing up and not sleeping properly and all this horrible stuff, and I promised myself that I wouldn’t be like that if I got to play for England.”

Owen looks down at his hands, twisting nervously in his lap. At the time, he wouldn’t have noticed anything untoward about the book, because he was doing all those things himself – not the throwing up, but he might as well have been.

“But he’s doing better now, apparently,” Jamie continues, as if he hasn’t dropped a bombshell on Owen’s preconceived ideas of his hero. “Mindfulness, medication, I think he even went veggie for a while – all that good stuff.”

Elliot sighs. “It’s useful to know now before it gets too bad, I guess, but I don’t think I’ll be around long enough to get like that.”

“What do you mean?” Owen asks. He’s been doing fine in training, from what he’s seen, and if Elliot’s hinting at something worse-

“It’s a squad of fifty, mate,” Elliot says. “Nineteen of us are going to be cut, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to be one of them.”

Owen frowns. “We’ve only been in camp for a week and a half – how do you know?”

“Andy said something to me after yesterday’s contact session,” Elliot says, emotionless. “Not in a mean way, I don’t think, more that I needed to get my act together if I want to make it to the Denver training camp.”

Jamie sits up, pulls him into a hug. “Why didn’t you tell me this before, love? You shouldn’t bottle this stuff up – be like Jonny, but in a good way.”

Owen chews on his fingernails. He’s not exactly the best person to comfort Elliot – Jamie has the advantage of being a fellow rookie and his boyfriend/best friend. Of the three of them, Owen’s most likely to make it into the final squad, if only because he has fewer flyhalves to compete against than Elliot has centres and wingers. It’s part of professional sport, of course, but it’s brutal when you’re on the other side of it.

“I know,” Elliot whispers, sounding close to cracking. “I didn’t want to make things worse for you – you’re in the same boat. I should be able to look after myself.”

Jamie huffs, squeezing him closer. “Baby, no. We’re here to help each other, alright? Go on, Faz, tell him.”

“Take it from me, El,” Owen says, “talk about this stuff. You know what England stuff did to me last year and the year before. We want to help – you’re not a burden, not in the slightest.” It’s what he wishes someone had told him back in the depths of his depression, or even on the slippery slope on the way there. If his experiences can help Elliot avoid that, he’s keen to help.

“Yeah, but no amount of positivity is going to help me when I can’t even make a bloody tackle,” Elliot complains. “You boys are fine – good defence, good attack, everybody likes you. I’m mates with the Wasps lads and you two, and that’s pretty much it.”

Owen snorts, not unkindly. “I promise not everybody likes me. Myler, for starters, and I think half the Sale guys have some random thing against me. That’s not what matters, anyway. It’s how you perform on the pitch, and they’d be stupid to let you go without giving you a chance to prove yourself.”

Jamie prods Elliot. “See? Faz knows what he’s talking about. Don’t let it get to you. Lancaster’s not such a dick that he’ll drop you without warning.”

“But Andy did warn me,” Elliot says despondently. There’s nothing either of them can say to that, really.

Five players are missing from training on the Friday of that week. They’re about to be allowed home for the first time in three weeks, but the unexplained absences cast a shadow over a light-hearted touch session in the afternoon. Nick Easter’s not there, but his back injury makes that understandable, Ed Slater’s gone, and so are Maro and Billy Twelvetrees. It’s Elliot’s absence that makes Owen worry.

He has improved his performance over the last few days, but it might not be enough for the coaches. This is the World Cup, after all, not the Six Nations or a summer tour, and a home World Cup at that. It might not be the best time for blooding new players, which works to Elliot’s disadvantage.

Still, Owen keeps his head down and focuses on the session. If those five are being let go, then another fourteen players are going to be cut over the next month. He can’t show any sign of weakness – on the pitch, at least. Ben’s here if he really needs someone to talk to, as well as biweekly appointments with Mick on Skype, but he’d prefer to have Elliot and Jamie around a bit longer to keep him on an even keel.

(He talks to George every couple of days, usually while Elliot’s spending time with Jamie in the room. Out of all of them, he’s the one with most experience of being dropped from international teams, so he’s good for rationalising. It’s what Owen needs at the moment.)

Jamie sidles up to Owen in the showers afterwards. “Do you know anything about, _you know_?” he asks significantly.

He rubs a towel over his spiky wet hair. “How would I know anything you don’t? Andy would never tell me anything important – or interesting.”

Jamie deflates. “Alright, whatever. I just – El. He’s not answering his phone, and he hasn’t read any of my messages.”

“Maybe he’s just in a meeting,” Owen suggests, though they both know what kind of meeting it would be: the _pack your bags, thank you for your contribution_ type. Nevertheless, they have to hope.

Owen goes up to his room as soon as he’s dressed. If Elliot’s going to be anywhere – if he’s hiding, or packing up his stuff, or calling a taxi to be picked up – it’s going to be there, the only private space he has.

He manages to shake off Jamie, slipping out of the locker room while his friend’s chatting to Dan Cole. Elliot won’t want to be crowded if he’s upset, he reasons. Fingers crossed, he swipes his key card and goes inside.

The room is empty. All their stuff is still spread across the desk and the beds and the floor, so Elliot’s either legged it without bothering to take his England kit (that’s fair, Owen would have done that himself) or he’s not back yet.

Then he hears a tiny noise from the toilet. He looks down and – yep, a sliver of light is coming out from under the door. He knocks twice, the sound harsh in the silence. “Elliot? Mate, are you alright?”

“Faz, don’t bother. I’m fine,” Elliot says through the closed door.

Owen sighs. “Mate, you’ve locked yourself in the loo. You’re not fine.”

The handle turns, and Elliot steps out. Owen’s relieved he’s still in one piece, but – from what he can see through Elliot’s hands, his face is wet.

“Shit, mate, come here.” Elliot collapses into him, not even bringing his arms up for the hug. Owen holds him tightly. “Whatever they said, it doesn’t matter. You’re incredible. You’re so young, as well. You’ve going to have so many more chances.”

Elliot sighs, his breathing shuddering out of him. The front of Owen’s shirt is damp, but that’s nothing compared to what his friend must be going through.

“A home World Cup, though,” he says bleakly. “Apparently I’ve set myself up for more selections going forward, which is the same as what they said to Maro.”

Owen squeezes him closer, running a hand up and down his back. “Well, that’s a good thing. You’re both young – you’ve got probably three World Cups in you, and you’re getting better every day.”

“That’s what Andy said,” Elliot murmurs. “It’s not fair. I want to be playing now.”

Owen sighs, but a knock on the door interrupts whatever inadequate consolation he could come up with. “It’s probably Jamie. Do you mind if I let him in?” Elliot shrugs, so he opens the door.

“Is Elliot here?” Jamie asks, bursting in before the door’s half open. “Oh, shit, El. Baby. I love you.”

Owen steps back and lets them have their moment. Jamie’s murmuring something in Elliot’s ear, low and furious. Whatever he’s saying, it seems to be working: Elliot huffs out a wet laugh, bringing a hand up to Jamie’s cheek and kissing him briefly.

“I suppose so,” he says, in answer to Jamie’s inaudible question. “But, hey – two out of three’s not bad. You two had better make it. For the gays, for the group chat, you know?”

“Maybe I’ll finally get to meet Nigel,” Jamie says lightly. “That’d be fun.”

“He’d like that,” Owen adds. It’s hard to know what more to say. Elliot’s presumably got to be out of here in the morning, like the rest of them, but he won’t be coming back on Monday. The build-up to the World Cup will continue without him.

“Mind if I stay with you for the weekend?” Elliot asks Jamie, thinking along the same lines. “Going back home – it’s too final. That’ll really make it feel like it’s over.”

“Of course,” Jamie says, hugging him again. “Whatever you need. Anyway, you might be doing the same for me in a few weeks’ time.”

“Don’t say that.” Elliot whacks him. “We can’t let Faz do it for the gays all by himself – you’ve got to help him.” He’s grinning, so Owen isn’t too offended. He’s still in the squad, at the end of the day. He can take a bit of ribbing.

Owen doesn’t see Elliot after he’s dropped off at his own house on Saturday morning. He should be spending time with Georgie instead of the friends he’s been with for the last three weeks, so he crosses his fingers that Jamie’s got it covered and focuses on his girlfriend.

Annoyingly, she doesn’t seem to appreciate it very much.

“You go back on Monday, don’t you?” she asks over dinner. He’s barely been back for four hours, so he’s within his rights to be a little pissed off.

“Yup,” he says between mouthfuls of rice.

“And then it’s another week in camp, and then you go to America?”

“Yeah, for two weeks.” If she’s going to start attacking him for being away with his job again, he doesn’t know what to say to her. She knew what she was getting into with dating a rugby player, and this is an opportunity that only comes round every four years. He’s not about to go to Stuart and ask for an extra day off because his girlfriend is acting pissy with him. If there was a birth or a death in the family, maybe he could wangle it, but not for this.

Georgie sighs. “Are you actually going to be home at any point before November?”

“We have a couple of half-weeks when we get back from Denver,” Owen says. Again, it’s the World Cup. He can’t just beg off on grounds that his girlfriend’s being all mardy about it. She shouldn’t have gone on that girls’ trip if she’d wanted to spend time with him before RWC prep started.

“What about my birthday?”

Owen bites his lip. Okay, that is fair. Her birthday falls in the week before the opening game, so he could ask for an evening off (while being incredibly grateful he lives near London instead of up in Newcastle or over in Exeter). “I’ll have to ask.”

“Honestly, they treat you like children. Can’t you just leave and not tell anyone?”

“They’ll notice,” Owen says, pushing some rice around his plate before he can scoop it up. “Stuart might understand, but Andy would go apeshit if I left for an evening. No matter how good you are, you can’t break that kind of rule.”

Georgie sighs again. “I think it’s stupid.”

Owen stabs his fork into his chicken with more force than is necessary. She might think it’s stupid, but it’s his job – his dream. He’s not telling her to bunk off work for his birthday, which will fall in the World Cup period anyway. He can’t help but think she’s making a mountain out of a molehill.

“You might think that, but it’s not up to us to decide,” he grits out. “If the coaches decide I’m not playing well enough, or I do something bad like running away without telling anybody – I’ll get kicked out.” Sensing she isn’t quite grasping the gravity of the situation, he adds, “That’s about fifty grand we’d miss out on, even just in the pool stages.”

His girlfriend huffs, but doesn’t answer. Maybe, just maybe, he’s managed to convince her.

The rest of the meal is eaten in silence. He doesn’t like flexing the difference in how much they earn, but sometimes it’s the only way to get stuff across to her. After all, isn’t that why she’s dating him? For the clout and for his salary that’s about five times as much as hers?

(It might be that he’s projecting his lack of affection onto her, but he can’t see any other reasons for it. They’re too hostile to each other for it to be anything else.)

In a reconciliation effort, Owen asks her to go for a walk on Sunday morning. He’s up an hour before her – the camp schedule is hard to shake – and he’s already checked in with the gay group chat when she comes downstairs.

“Alright?” he asks, pressing a kiss to her cheek as she goes to the cereal cupboard. She nods wordlessly. “I was thinking we could go for a walk – that might be nice?”

It was going for a walk or watching some league, and he doubts she’s in the mood for watching George or Kit and Zak for two hours.

“I’m meeting Rachel at two, but that would be nice in the morning,” she says, not looking at him.

It’s half past ten already; they’re not going to get very far. Still, he’ll take what he can get at this point.

“Round by the cathedral and out into the fields?” he suggests. It’s a route they used to do, back when things weren’t so tense and they could spend more than a few hours at a time in each other’s company. It might remind her of the good times.

“That might be a bit far, Owen,” she says. She’s still not looking at him, choosing to scroll through her phone instead. “I still need to have a shower and put my makeup on.”

“Just to the cathedral, then?” Walking through the middle of town isn’t the most romantic, but it’ll have to do.

“Fine.”

He wants to scream. He’s actually making an effort for once, and he’s getting no response. Then again, when she’s tried to initiate stuff, he’s usually never in the mood for it. If their enthusiasm times could just match up, it would work out nicely. Nevertheless, he’s committed – for today, at least.

When it’s clear she isn’t going to say anything else, he slopes off to the living room, tail between his legs. He’s fully aware that he’s not been the best boyfriend, nine days out of ten, but he’s trying now, and isn’t that what counts? Just because he hasn’t wanted to have sex with his perfectly nice girlfriend in a while – that’s no reason for her to get all huffy with him. He’s got a high-pressure job and a whole raft of personal issues, so she shouldn’t expect it.

He definitely doesn’t expect it from her, and relationships should be about compromise. If he doesn’t want something, then she should probably be okay with that.

He leans his head back against the sofa and sighs. Having a girlfriend had seemed like the answer to all his problems, back in the day, but now he can’t see any way of extracting himself from the situation. It’s awkward for both of them, he’s sure, but sometimes it’s good. When they both sync their _ready to reciprocate affection_ times, once in a blue moon, it’s nice to lie on the sofa together and watch a film, something relaxing like that.

(A little voice in his head tells him that it should probably be more than nice, after four years together. He tells the voice, in no uncertain terms, to shut up. There’s nothing wrong with their relationship, technically.)

In the end, Georgie drags out doing her makeup and getting ready for so long that they barely have time to go round the block before it’s lunch and then she’s going to meet Rachel. Owen slumps down on the sofa with more than a little bad grace. He’s trying, but apparently that’s not enough anymore.

Resigned to his fate – at least he’ll be back in camp soon – he turns on the TV. St Helens are playing Castleford, so he can distract himself from Georgie with George and his team. Idly, he wonders if there are any relationship rules against that, but then he decides he doesn’t care. The way they’re going, it might not matter for too much longer.

He manages to watch the entirety of that match – an easy Saints win, with George scoring his second try of the season in a blistering passage of play – and half the following one before he hears Georgie’s car in the drive. He glances at the clock. It’s time to start preparing tea, really, so if he runs now he can pretend that’s what he’s been doing all along.

Georgie doesn’t like cooking with him either, but he’s not letting that be his motivation for doing it. Cooking his own food is just a welcome change after weeks of being fed Pennyhill food, that’s all.

Tea is yet another silent meal, the clinking of cutlery on plates the only sound. It’s tense, but Owen genuinely doesn’t know what to do to fix it. He’d gone out on a limb earlier with the walk, and there is genuinely nothing he can do about being in camp for so long. A few more video calls with her and a few less with George might tip the balance in his favour, but he’s not counting on it.

Eventually, after he’s washed up and Georgie’s retreated to the spare room to call her mum, they go to bed. There’s none of the touching or the cuddling or the easy intimacy of the early days of their relationship; Owen’s right on the edge of the mattress, more uncomfortable than he’d been when he was sharing with Elliot at George’s house.

Of course, that thought brings back all the memories of being in the same bed as George. Even in his drowsy medicated state, he’d been more affectionate than Georgie. Accounting for George’s probably ongoing crush and Georgie’s actually dating him, the difference is striking.

Owen shifts in the bed, rolling over so he’s facing the window. He doesn’t want to think about that right now. He has enough problems without bringing that into the mix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you thought about this chapter, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com)!


	48. Chapter 48

Going back into camp is a welcome distraction from everything going on in his personal life. Mick’s not a fan of that line of reasoning, but then when does he ever approve of something Owen’s come up with himself?

(He has grounds for his concern, Owen can acknowledge, but still. He’s a grown man. He’s allowed a few dodgy judgement calls every now and again.)

So, camp’s good for him to get away from George and Georgie, at least regarding how mental capacity the two of them are taking up. He calls one or the other of them most nights (skewing heavily towards George, but he’s not telling his girlfriend that), which distracts him from the less fun parts of camp.

One of those less enjoyable tasks is keeping Jamie occupied now Elliot’s gone. They’re all adults and they mostly get along fine, but those two are something else. Jamie mopes around the room – the other bed starkly empty without a roommate to mess it up – and generally bemoans the stupid choices made by the coaches.

Today’s argument is that Elliot’s comparative lack of finesse is actually an advantage, proving his youth and talent and hunger. He’s grown up in the game and has an instinctive understanding of it, yet he can’t quite translate that onto the pitch yet – that’s what Owen’s taken from Jamie’s rambling, anyway.

“I just don’t get it,” Jamie says, lying on Elliot’s bed and staring at the ceiling. “He’s so good, and they kept _Sam Burgess_ over him? Maybe El’s not as big as him, but that’s not everything. Burgess has only played union for a couple of months. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

Owen keeps his mouth shut. It’s easier this way, to let Jamie talk all his frustration out until he comes to the conclusion that the coaches were possibly, just a tiny bit, correct in their call. It pains him to admit it, but Elliot hadn’t been playing to the level he had in the Premiership, so he can’t justify his continued presence on those grounds.

Jamie, of course, is blind to that logic – young love, or something like that. They’ve gone through this exact routine every night of the six days they’ve been in camp without Elliot. Even with the flight to Colorado in the morning, his friend’s still complaining. Hopefully something’s going to come along and distract him soon, or Owen’s going to go crazy.

His phone alarm buzzes for curfew, and Jamie sits up with a sigh. “Same time tomorrow?” he asks, with a hint of dark humour in his voice.

“Alright,” Owen says, smiling slightly. At least Jamie’s self-aware.

Denver is – it’s hot, but also surprisingly cold in the evenings, and the rain’s absolutely torrential when it gets going. The training’s alright, but the real benefit (at least in Owen’s eyes) comes with a new environment. Pennyhill’s perfectly nice, adequate for shorter tournaments like the Six Nations, but it can be stifling after several months without a break. Given they’re only in July, it’s a while still to go until they can escape.

Rationally, he knows that the coaches decided on Denver for the altitude, so they can gain more red blood cells for the return to England. Even being cooped up with Andy and Billy and the few other malcontents in camp doesn’t stress him out as much in Colorado, for some reason. The change of scenery, the detachment from life back in England – it’s surprisingly good for his mental health.

He doesn’t have any appointments with Mick in the fortnight they’re in America, but for the first time in a while he feels like he doesn’t need it. The bracing mountain air clears his head more than the antidepressants ever do, and he goes to bed tired but satisfied every night. If World Cups – and home World Cups at that – are as intense as he’s heard, he’s going to need every bit of mental stability he can get.

That’s why his initial reaction to the news is more of a _why now_ than _good for him_. George has sent the link to the gay group chat and Elliot’s already responded while he and Jamie were asleep – stupid time zones – but Owen navigates to the webpage before reading through their excited texts. Straight from the horse’s mouth is generally his approach to news stories.

_[Rugby League star Keegan Hirst becomes first Brit player to come out as gay ](https://www.mirror.co.uk/sport/rugby-league/rugby-league-star-keegan-hirst-6260707) _

_[Respected prop Keegan, 27, reveals the secret torment of dealing with his sexuality while carving out a career in one of the world’s most macho sports](https://www.mirror.co.uk/sport/rugby-league/rugby-league-star-keegan-hirst-6260707) _

_[By Patrick Hill ](https://www.mirror.co.uk/sport/rugby-league/rugby-league-star-keegan-hirst-6260707) _

[ _23:30, 15 AUG 2015_ ](https://www.mirror.co.uk/sport/rugby-league/rugby-league-star-keegan-hirst-6260707)

He skims the article breathlessly, not sure if he’s hallucinating. That’s what a lack of oxygen does, isn’t it? _Respected prop_ , he might quibble with, but the rest is too close for comfort. The acting straight because that’s the done thing – yeah, he gets that. Thinking about being disowned – yep, he can tick that off the list too.

He’s never quite got to the lowest point, like Keegan, but still.

Owen drops his phone on the bed and rolls over onto his back. By now, he can identify the warning signs of a panic attack. Tingling fingers, the sensation of a band being pulled tighter and tighter around his chest; it’s coming, whether he likes it or not.

Because, fuck, Keegan’s a league guy. Like when George had had to face his teammates after Gareth Thomas came out and they all came clean about their opinions of gay people – Andy’s surely going to want to talk about this. Maybe he’ll mention it in a conversation, casually, just dropping it in as a demonstration of intent. He doesn’t know if Andy remembers all the little things he’s said over the years, but Owen does.

Fighting for breath, he rests his hands on his abdomen, pushes down until he has to slow his breathing or pass out. Slowly – slowly – another one – he drags himself back from the precipice. He’s knackered, and he still has a full day’s training to go. He needs to tell Jamie, so someone can watch out for him.

He grabs his phone. It unlocks to show the blaring headline, and he exits it quickly. As good as it is, objectively speaking, he can’t look at it any longer. Owen switches to his messages.

Elliot and George’s last messages were a few hours ago, so they must be in bed now, or moved on to something else. Apparently Kit’s excited too, and they’ve both sent Keegan a message. It’s not the subtlest of moves if they’re trying to stay in the closet, but it’s their choice. Owen wouldn’t do the same in their situation – but then he’s never going to be in that situation, with a guy he knows or another union player.

He doesn’t know how to convey _this is great but it made me have a panic attack_ in a way that won’t make them worry, so he sticks with a _great news, really happy for him_ and switches to his chat with Jamie. He should be awake by now; breakfast starts in about ten minutes.

_A league player came out – got stressed, had a panic attack. Feeling a little wobbly._

It’s to the point, and hopefully Jamie won’t be too mother hen-ish about it. He’d rather try and push it out of his mind until he can sit and think about it properly. They’re flying back to England in the morning, ahead of the France warmup match next Sunday, so he’s going to have an opportunity for reflection then.

His phone buzzes in his loose grip.

_I just saw the article_

_want me to come by before we go down for breakfast?_

He considers it. The rooms are singles in this hotel, thank God, so it’s not like anybody’s going to notice. He could use a hug, anyway.

_If you want :)_

_always got time for my fave flyhalf x_ Jamie replies, and Owen smiles despite the shakiness inside. He has backup in the form of a trusted friend. It’s going to be okay.

(The rapid beating of his heart doesn’t seem to agree.)

Nevertheless, he gets through training by the skin of his teeth. Andy’s probably not trying to lurk – though it’s always a possibility – but Owen’s hyperconscious of the need to act _normal_. Chris accepts his attempts to hide behind him in the locker room with captainly good grace, and then he pegs it back to his room for the security of a locked door.

He only has fifteen minutes of scrolling through Twitter, checking the fans’ and teams’ reactions, before someone knocks at the door. He gets up, anxiety already bubbling up in his throat, and goes to check the spyhole. It’s Jamie – like it was going to be anyone else.

He unlocks the door after taking a few deeps breaths. It’s okay. The fans think it’s alright, the players and the coaches and Keegan’s teammates all think it’s alright – he’s already played a match with everyone knowing he’s gay, for Christ’s sake – so it’s only the personification of his internalised homophobia, otherwise known as Andy Farrell, that disagrees.

“Ayup, mate,” Jamie says, holding out his arms for a hug. “How’s it trucking?”

“It’s okay,” he says, nestling into Jamie’s chest. God, if this had happened in any England camp before this, he would have been screwed. “It’s okay now, anyway.”

“I couldn’t tell anything was off at training,” Jamie says soothingly. He’s rubbing his hands up and down Owen’s back, and if he feels how much he’s trembling, he doesn’t say anything. “Look, you did fine, like always. Nobody even mentioned it, did they?”

“That’s ‘cause they don’t care about league,” Owen murmurs. He should probably ask Jamie to sit down, like a good host, but it’s a bit beyond him right now. “It’d have to be a union guy before they noticed.”

Jamie guides them to the bed. Owen feels guilty for a millisecond before the anxiety submerges it. “If any of them were going to say anything, they would have said it by now,” he says. “Even Billy kept his mouth shut.”

Owen smiles tiredly into the soft cotton of Jamie’s shirt. They both know just how bad it could have been. “Yeah, I suppose. No union players are going to come out, though, are they? We’d know about it if there were any – or you would. Your gaydar’s better than mine.”

“Aww, thanks, Faz,” Jamie says and ruffles his hair. “But I’m not going to say anything, if I did know, you get that? Privacy’s important.”

Owen nods. He doesn’t like feeling left out – the entirety of his teenage years and his exclusion from the gay group chat are proof of that – but he can see the logic behind it. “Okay, whatever. But it won’t happen any time soon. It’s a once in a blue moon thing.”

“2007, 2009, 2015,” Jamie says consideringly. “I see what you mean. Then again – it could be like volcanoes, or something like that. You can’t predict it accurately, and one explosion, coming out, whatever, might set a load off.”

Owen sighs, calm enough now to disentangle himself from Jamie’s arms. “That’d be nice. You’re not, though?”

“Not what?” Jamie pushes himself back to lean against the wall.

“Going to come out any time soon?”

He shakes his head. “Maybe once I’m a bit more established with England – or if I’m so bad that it’s obvious I haven’t got a chance. Either way, it wouldn’t matter anymore. But not at the moment, no.”

He doesn’t bother asking Owen’s thoughts on the matter. They all know perfectly well what’s keeping him in the closet to everyone but the four of them.

“It’s fine, anyway,” Owen says, continuing the thought he’d been mulling over in his head out loud. “I’ve got a Mick session for Wednesday evening – he’ll sort it out.”

“Once you’ve got over the jetlag, you mean?” Jamie snickers. “I bet that’s going to make everything so much better.”

He groans. “Don’t even start on that. Trying to work out the time zones for when I have to take my meds took me about half an hour.”

“Aren’t we just seven hours behind?” Jamie says, frowning. “Like, it’s not that hard. Just have them with lunch instead of breakfast.”

“I think that’s the wrong way,” Owen answers. He should know – he spent long enough figuring it out – but Jamie’s cast some doubt in his mind. “I’ve been having them before I go to sleep instead.”

Jamie shrugs. “Ah well. As long as you’re not forgetting, that’s the main thing.”

The conversation turns to lighter topics after that – Joe Marler’s dog has apparently been missing him greatly, and he’d spent ages showing everyone a video of it whining by the front door of his house, distraught. Owen’s not sure how the dog’s just started missing him when they’ve all been away from home for six days a week for the last couple of months, but he hadn’t been in the right mindset to argue about it.

It’s weird, how time seems to compress after that. Jamie leaves to go to bed, Owen takes his tablets and falls asleep after calling George for half an hour, and then they’re at the airport and then at Heathrow and Georgie’s waiting to take him home on the other side of the fence in arrivals.

“Hiya, sweetie,” she says, going up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Good trip?”

“Good, yeah,” he says. She commandeers his luggage trolley full of kit, so he waves to Jamie as he leaves. He’d thought about asking Georgie to give him a lift home as well, but there are plenty of Sarries lads in the squad to take him apart from Owen. Georgie’s been in a good mood for the last few days, so he hadn’t wanted to spoil the occasion.

“You’re looking very tanned,” she says, running an eye over his body while he shoves his stuff onto the back seat. “Your arms are good, too. Manly, you know.”

He forces a smile. He’s jetlagged as shit, he hasn’t slept in far too long, and he’s really not in the mood for anything right now. If she’s going to try and start something, she’s going to be disappointed.

“Have you done anything nice while I’ve been away?” he asks. He’s slumped in the passenger seat, eyes already sliding closed. He has to make an effort, though – she must have been all by herself for ages.

“You’d know if you’d bothered to do more than text me,” she says. Her tone’s already going sour, and Owen wants to open the car door and let himself fall out. They’re not even out of the carpark yet – he could make a run for it and hide out with one of the lads from the team for a few days until they’re due back at Pennyhill.

“I was busy,” he says weakly. God, if she checks his phone and sees all the calls to George, he’s screwed. It likely counts as emotional cheating at this point, in her view. It’s just – nobody actually dates their best friend, do they? Okay, Elliot and Jamie, but they’re basically the same person, which is weird enough in itself.

Friends are for fun and emotional conversations, and girlfriends or boyfriends or partners are for sex and having someone to cuddle up to at night. Admittedly, him and Georgie haven’t done that for an embarrassingly long time, but that’s how it’s supposed to work. Andy and his mum have never been the best of friends, which proves it in Owen’s mind.

Still, he decides that discretion is the better part of valour in some situations, and allows himself the luxury of falling asleep. It’s been a long day and a half, and an interrogation is decidedly not what he needs right now.

He wakes up briefly when they get home, but then he’s asleep again – in his own bed, how decadent – within minutes.

The next time he surfaces, the curtains in the bedroom are wide open and sunlight is streaming in. He rolls over to say good morning to Georgie, only finding an empty bed. His eyes flick to the clock in a panic.

Oh. Right.

It’s ten in the morning, and she has a job which requires regular hours. He’d better message her and apologise. On the other hand, a few more minutes of sleep would be lovely, and his phone’s all the way downstairs – where, he doesn’t know, since Georgie presumably brought his stuff in.

He yawns, wriggling slightly under the warm covers. The sun’s a little bright, but it’s reassuring. If he does go back to sleep, he’ll only be able to sleep for another hour, maximum. He’s jetlagged – it’s fine.

Owen wakes up for the second time to the door slamming. He’s instantly awake, scrambling to his feet. Is someone robbing them, and if so why are they being so noisy? He creeps to the door and sticks his head out onto the landing. Nobody’s in sight, so he starts to tiptoe down the stairs. He’s a rugby player; he can handle himself.

He’s barely halfway down when Georgie comes into the hall. She puts her hands on her hips, tutting at him. “Someone was a bit tired, was he?” she says. A couple of years ago, she might have smiled as she said it, but now her face is blank, trending towards annoyed.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. She’s already turned around and gone back to the kitchen, so it’s not like he had the chance to defend himself.

“I’ll make dinner,” she says, “so don’t stir yourself.”

“Right,” he says meekly. There’s no real way to respond to that without antagonising her further. “Do you know where my phone is? Oh, shit – and the antidepressants?”

“Phone’s in the top drawer, medication back on the sink in our bathroom.” She doesn’t bother looking round, focusing instead on cutting up some potatoes.

“Thanks.” He grabs his phone out of the drawer and retreats up the stairs. It’s better to take the tablets as soon as possible after forgetting to take a dose, so he has a legitimate excuse for it. Anyway, he doesn’t want her to see if the gay group chat has sent any incriminating messages.

When he’s taken his pills, he leans against the sink and reads through his messages. Stuart’s sent some long-winded email that he’ll get back to later, while George and Elliot and Jamie are the source of about eighty text notifications stacked at the top of his screen.

Keegan replied to George’s message, he discovers, and they’ve decided to go out after their season ends, in the few weeks before George should be off on tour with his England side.

 _NOT like that though_ , he’s written in response to Elliot’s suggestive emojis.

_in a nice way_

_anyway, he’s too tall + old for me_

Owen would like to know just where George’s limits are, and Jamie’s helpfully already asked the question. That would be awkward if he’d done it, ten hours later.

_Keegan’s 6’4 and five years older, so basically that_

_You mean I’ve got a chance??!!_ Jamie had sent back.

Owen grinds his teeth. It’s a joke, he’s sure of that, but he doesn’t like it. Jamie’s got Elliot, in whatever way they’ve decided they have each other now, and George deserves someone better.

Not that there’s anything wrong with Jamie, but he doesn’t seem like George’s type. All his exes have been tall – but apparently shorter than 6’4 – and blond and athletic-looking. It’s not rude to say that Jamie is none of those things, even in comparison to George.

_don’t joke, my heart is too bruised already_

_Good thing Faz isn’t here then_ , Elliot’s typed, and Owen pulls a face. What’s that supposed to mean? He doesn’t make shitty jokes, and he can’t think of any times he might have done so enough for Elliot to mention him in that context.

He reads on, hoping to find a clue in the next messages.

 _ouch_ , George has sent back.

 _Don’t lie to yourself Georgie!! Nothing can stand in the way of true lurve_ , Jamie’s written. Owen hopes it’s the jetlag talking, because he hates the thought of hearing those words coming out of Jamie’s mouth.

_not lying to myself, just being pragmatic_

_it’s never going to happen_

Owen winces. George’s despondency is clear even in little pixels on his phone screen. Whoever this guy is who’s hurting George, he’d like to have a word with him. Stringing someone along is never cool.

Elliot and Jamie have both replied with crying emojis, so they don’t appear to think he has much of a chance either. The conversation turns to Elliot’s preseason training after that, and Owen doesn’t bother to read on. He can imagine what he’s said well enough, and Georgie’s probably wondering what’s taking so long.

He’ll get to the bottom of the mystery of who George’s arsehole of a crush is later – first he has Georgie to deal with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you thought about this chapter, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com)!  
> I also just posted something Valentine’s- and rugby-related on there, so go and check it out :)
> 
> Have a good week!


	49. Chapter 49

Even though they’ve only been out of camp for a couple of days, Owen has so much he wants to talk to Jamie about when he sees his friend from across the hotel lobby at Pennyhill.

“Alright, mate?” he asks, comparing Jamie’s key card to his own – they’re on different floors, which sucks.

Jamie yawns, mostly for show. “Screwed up my jetlag recovery, but yeah. We’re not training today though, so it doesn’t really matter.”

Owen chuckles. “Yeah, I fell asleep and didn’t wake up until Georgie was back from work the next day.”

“Bet she was pleased.”

“I mean, she never is at the moment,” he sighs, nodding at Kruiser as he comes in. “I even offered to go for a walk, and I got nothing.”

Jamie shrugs. “It’s not my place to say anything, but – it should get easier after the World Cup. You’ll actually see each other then!”

Owen winces. They will see each other, or at least they will have the opportunity to see each other, but he can’t imagine Georgie taking it. He wouldn’t mind too much; George’s calls every couple of days are way more interesting than any strained conversations he could struggle through with his girlfriend.

“That’s a long time away,” he says in the end. He can’t tell Jamie that he’s not actually sure he’s into his girlfriend anymore – that’d be a dick move, especially with everything that’s going on with Elliot.

(He doesn’t know whether anything’s going on with Elliot at the moment, not that it changes their behaviour at all.)

“Ah well,” Jamie says. “France first, and then you can worry about her.”

Owen nods. Rugby’s there as his backup, as always. Things could be going to shit in his personal life – and they absolutely have done, the last few years – but rugby’s a constant. Rugby, his friends, and Georgie have kept him going, in various ways and at various times. They’re like a three-legged stool that he’s sat on, and he’s worried about what will happen if one of the legs suddenly removes itself.

Still, rugby. They’re flying out to France on Saturday afternoon – it’s a good thing it’s a home tournament, or he might scream at the sight of another security scanner – and then back on Sunday evening, ahead of the Ireland game the next week – but he shouldn’t get ahead of himself. One day at a time, one match at a time, and he’ll see where they end up.

(Not as the weakest link in the pool of death, he thinks inanely. He’d never live down the shame.)

So he takes it one day at a time, working through the training sessions and enjoying the clear head it gives him. Sometimes all the same drills and the same faces and the same grassy pitches grate on him and stifle his mind like cotton wool, but it’s not happening this week.

He’s not all fuzzy like sometimes, and the clarity isn’t letting any intrusive thoughts in – and there’s a lot of those lurking at the moment. He’s just calm and focused and ready to take on France.

The same mood had been reflected by the other guys in camp, even as they tick into their third month of training together. That’s why he’s confused on Sunday morning when Jamie knocks on his door at half seven, barely five minutes after he’s woken up.

“What is it?” he grouses, dragging himself out of bed and to the door with his duvet wrapped around his shoulders.

Jamie smiles at him, though it’s tense. “Look, trust me on this – can I have your phone?”

“What?” he repeats. What’s Jamie going on about? Has someone texted him? Andy’s in camp with him, so it wouldn’t be that, and Jamie couldn’t know about that anyway. Some bad news?

“I don’t want you to be distracted,” Jamie says doggedly. “I promise, it’s for your own good. You can have it back after the game. Just – please?”

Something in his tone, edging into antsy, convinces Owen. His friend tends to have good reasons behind his actions, and it’s not like he was expecting any important calls today. He usually checks the news and the weather and answers his messages after waking up on game days, but that’s about it. Jamie must have known and come to intercept him.

“Fine,” he says, ducking back into the room to grab his phone from where it’s charging by the bed. “It’s not anything bad, though?”

“Nothing bad,” Jamie promises. “Could be distracting, though, and we don’t need that.”

“Not for your first game,” Owen agrees. He drops the phone into Jamie’s hand, gripping his wrist for a second before taking a step back.

“Yep, that’s exactly what I was thinking of.” Jamie rolls his eyes. “I can’t let anything throw Faz off his game because I want a win for my England debut.”

“See you at breakfast?” Owen asks, pulling the covers tighter around him. It’s surprisingly chilly, for a hotel room in France in August.

“Ten minutes?” Jamie suggests. “I’ll walk down with you.”

Owen nods, and Jamie leaves with a grin. Whatever’s going on – whatever’s got Jamie in guard dog mode – maybe it’s best he doesn’t try to find out. His friend has a good track record for this sort of thing, so he’s inclined to trust him for the moment. He does need to focus on the match, after all. It’s the first of their warm-up matches for the tournament, at long last, and he needs to be switched on.

He hears some muttering on the coach from the team, something about Saracens and sevens and a guy called Stanley, but he puts in his headphones and tunes it out. Whatever they’re gossiping about, it can wait.

Despite Jamie’s best efforts and all Owen’s breathing exercises at half time, they lose. It’s ominous, with the pool of death creeping ever closer. The last ten minutes were good, as a poor consolation prize. A 25-20 loss isn’t great, but it’s a start, and it could be worse.

Stuart gives them the short version of his speech, saving the longer spiel for the next however many days they’re in camp, and then Jamie yanks Owen out of the locker room into a deserted corridor.

“Have you got my phone?” Owen asks, confused.

Jamie smiles at him, shifting from foot to foot. “About that, mate – I think it might be a better idea if I tell you, instead of you finding out by yourself.”

“What is it?” If Jamie thinks all this cloak and dagger stuff is keeping him calm, he’s dead wrong.

“This probably isn’t the best place for it,” Jamie says. He’s looking around them, gestures like it’s obvious. “When we get back to the hotel, I can pack my stuff really quickly and come round to your room, and then we can talk about it. Sound good?”

Owen nods. It’s not like he has a choice in the matter. And if Jamie wants to drag it out even longer, he can’t do much to stop it.

(Besides, he isn’t going to go behind Jamie’s back and ask someone else what’s happening. He must be doing it for a reason.)

He’s pulled into a quick debrief with Stuart when they get back to the hotel – apparently, as playmaker, it’s his role to diagnose the issues with the entire team – so he misses tea with the rest of the guys. Instead, Andy gives him a box of food and sends him upstairs to pack.

Jamie’s hovering outside when he gets to his room. “Where’ve you been? I got off the bus and you’d vanished.”

“Talking to the coaches,” he says, juggling the box and his key card. “Nothing major, just wanted a debrief so they can start working on it on the way back.”

“Oh, okay,” Jamie says. He follows him in and plonks himself down on Owen’s bed. “They didn’t say anything – unusual?”

“No?” Whatever’s going on, Jamie needs to tell him ASAP or he’s going to go nuts. “At least, not that I noticed.”

“Okey dokey. That’s good,” Jamie says. He’s sat cross-legged, back against the wall, and Owen would say he looks nervous – but then why would he?

“So, you know that conversation we had, back in Denver?” he continues, widening his eyes like that makes it any more obvious what he’s talking about.

“Mate, you basically stuck to my side the entire time we were out there. I don’t remember every single thing we talked about.”

He grabs his pyjamas from under the pillow and shoves them into his bag. They don’t need to be folded neatly; they’ll only be in there for a few hours.

“Okay, then. How about – a particularly _interesting_ conversation we had?”

This is getting annoying. “Mate, you’re acting like the room’s bugged. Just tell me, whatever it is – I can take it.”

Jamie chews on his lip. “If you’re sure.” He gets out his phone, passes it to Owen. “It’s all there for you.”

[ _England Sevens star: I’m gay_ ](https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/england-sevens-star-im-gay-xk0kmmjtdwz)

[ _Sam Stanley talks with relief after coming out but reveals how difficult it was to face up to his sexuality_ ](https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/england-sevens-star-im-gay-xk0kmmjtdwz)

[ _By Stephen Jones, Sunday August 30 2015_ ](https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/england-sevens-star-im-gay-xk0kmmjtdwz)

Owen blinks. Hang on – Sam? Sam Stanley? That must have been what the lads had been talking about earlier; he just hadn’t put the pieces together because Jamie had stopped him from finding out.

“Faz? You still with me?” Jamie’s voice is full of concern.

Owen wrenches his gaze away from the headline, though it feels like they’re boring into his skull even as he looks over at Jamie. “Yeah,” he says faintly. “Yeah, I am.”

“It’s funny,” Jamie says, “how we were talking about how it would probably never happen, or at least not soon, and then two weeks later – little Sam’s come out. Like, it’s crazy.”

“Did you know?” Owen asks. He needs to keep talking, keep distracted, before he spirals. Not like with Keegan, or Gareth, or Nigel – Jamie’s here; he needs to keep his cool.

“Before this? Yeah. He asked me about me and El, way back when he was still on the team, and I couldn’t say no. He was the only one who noticed, before George.” Jamie looks wistful. “We basically did a mutual coming out. He’s a good guy – it’s just a shame things didn’t work out for him.”

Owen has to sit down on the end of the bed. “So you’ve known since-”

“2011, give or take,” Jamie says, like he hasn’t just shattered Owen’s worldview. Sure, he and Sam hadn’t talked much outside of training because Sam had always stayed away from social events and stuff like that, but he’s had a gay guy on his team.

Well, obviously he’s always had Jamie, and George and Elliot for a few games, and he apparently counts, as abstract as it feels to him sometimes. Still, knowing that his Sarries lads – Billy, bloody hell – are all going to know they’ve played with a gay guy: he knows what George means now, about being happy for the guy who came out but terrified for himself.

Nobody’s going to say anything bad in England camp, he’s pretty confident – he or Jamie will be able to muster the courage to confront whoever it is who says something – but he’s not so sure about Saracens. He and Jamie have basically dealt with all the homophobic stuff, or the insinuations of it, singlehandedly over the last few years. If they’re not there, and another not-straight guy on the team is having to deal with any shit by himself – it’s going to be horrible.

He doesn’t know if there are any gay or bi guys on the team apart from the two of them at the moment, but if Jamie does, he’s not mentioning it.

(Like he hadn’t said anything about Sam for the last four years, Owen thinks bitterly, and then mentally slaps himself. It’s Sam’s thing to deal with when he feels ready, and that time seems to be now.)

He shakes himself a little, to break out of his thoughts. “Do you think I should message him?” Concrete actions, those he can do, even in this half-panicked state.

“I reckon he’d like it,” Jamie says, and tosses Owen’s phone over. “I’m sorry for not telling you earlier, or letting you find out yourself, but I thought you’d rather freak out now than before a match, you know?”

Owen nods. He gets what Jamie means – it was the right choice, even it had frustrated him no end throughout the day. “Thanks. How long have we got before we have to go to the bus?” He’s all packed now, thank God, so the only thing left to do is message Sam.

“Six minutes,” Jamie says promptly. “Plenty of time.”

He murmurs his thanks, opening Facebook Messenger. He doesn’t have Sam’s number anymore, but he has a million Facebook friends – he’s got to be on there somewhere.

Sure enough, Sam’s profile picture pops up a few seconds later. He feels bad for a second that he’s apparently never messaged Sam before, but then quashes it. He had a lot going on back then – they all did. Keeping up with every guy in the extended squad outside of group chats is probably an unreasonable expectation.

 _Hey mate_ , he starts, before deleting it. Is that too familiar? They haven’t spoken since Sam left Sarries, and they were never particularly close. He’s probably talked to Billy more than Sam, and that’s saying something.

 _Hi, saw the news_. No, that’s weird as well. Maybe he should just skip the awkward greeting and get straight to the point.

_Saw the news – congrats! Really brave, means a lot to a lot of people. Hope you and Laurence are doing well._

That’ll probably do it. It’s honest without getting too emotional or letting anything slip. It’s the sort of thing you’d expect from a past teammate after some good news, so he’s satisfied. He clicks send and exhales.

“Ready to go?” Jamie asks, smiling. More than anyone except Mick, he must understand what Owen’s going through right now. That’s why he’d nicked his phone for the whole day, after all.

“Think so.” He tries to smile, pushes his shoulders back and stands up straight. They’d talked about this happening like it was a distant prospect, but now – it’s happened, and it might not be someone with the profile and the career of Gareth Thomas, but it’s pretty cool. Pretty scary too, especially with the proximity to himself, but mostly exciting.

“Awesome.” Jamie claps him on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

On the flight back, Owen scrolls through all the messages on the group chat from George and Elliot, and Jamie too (presumably once he’d finished his little intervention). George seems more relaxed about it – he’s had experience of a guy in his code coming out in recent weeks already, and Owen’s so confused and hyped that he can actually say that now – but Elliot doesn’t stop typing in all capital letters for about twenty minutes.

Jamie’s more reserved, but then he’d known for years. The timing might have been a surprise, but he’d had the facts for longer than the vast majority of people.

(It makes Owen wish he had a better gaydar, or at least gave off the right signals to the right people a little bit more. He’s missed out on so much, with Sam and with Elliot and Jamie too, and it makes him sad sometimes.)

Sam’s messaged back by the time the plane lands and his phone has connection again.

_Thanks mate – glad it’s out there now! How’re you doing?_

Owen types out his message, unable to look at the screen and to believe what his fingers are doing, seemingly independently of his brain, and sends it without checking it. He clicks his phone off and sticks it in his pocket. He’s taken a risk, but a calculated one. It will probably turn out okay.

When he’s back in his room at Pennyhill, away from prying eyes, he dares to check his notifications.

_Oh wow, wasn’t expecting that – congrats!!! Genuinely I thought I was the only one for so long (obvs Jamie, but you know what it’s like), and then the last few weeks I just thought fuck it and did it._

_Hang on, you did know about Jamie right??_

_?????!_

There’s a gap, and then another text from only a few minutes ago.

_Okay, he says you knew about him already – I was scared I outed him then._

_Kind of a shame we didn’t all know back then, could have been fun. Ah well._

Owen bites his lip.

_You’re happy now, though? And yeah, Jamie told me a while back, and there are a few others I know too._

That’s enthusiastic enough, and crucially doesn’t out anyone. He’s not about to launch into a conversation that amounts to comparing notes on who’s attracted to guys in the Premiership. That’s not cool.

 _Very :)_ Sam sends back. _Ngl, it’s a lot more fun watching than playing._

 _Each to their own, I guess._ Owen wouldn’t give up rugby for anything, or anyone. It’s everything for him, which is a bit depressing. _Good to catch up though!_

_Absolutely!_

_Once you’ve finished with England stuff, do you want to come round to mine to catch up? Bring Jamie if you want._

_Sounds good!_

_Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to name a date – no jinxing here._

Owen grins. _Thanks mate. See you soon, but not too soon._

_You bet :P_

He turns his phone off and sighs, grinning helplessly. He’s not expecting a snowball effect from this, but it’s nice knowing that there are a handful of other guys out there. Besides, if two players have come out as gay in the last few weeks, and the four of them on the group chat also like guys but aren’t out publicly, some law of probability states that there’s got to be more of them around.

What’s the official stat, anyway? 2% of the population, applied to the five hundred or so players in the league – he has to get his calculator out; he’s still a rugby player at the end of the day – which makes it likely that each team has a gay or bi guy on it. He and Jamie and Sam exceed the Saracens quota by quite a lot, but that means there are other guys out there.

They’re not out, as such, but they’re out there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These few weeks were like an out of body experience from an LGBT rugby perspective - I’d forgotten how much so until I was doing research for this!   
> I'd love to hear what you thought about this chapter, either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com)!


	50. Chapter 50

The next few weeks pass in a blur. Some of it’s definitely down to anxiety – Jamie has to talk him off the edge of a panic attack more than once while they’re at Pennyhill – but there’s just so much going on. He talks to George (probably more than he should) and Georgie (definitely not enough) and keeps up with Elliot mostly via Jamie, and then rugby pushes everything else he might even consider doing to the side.

It’s a home World Cup, after all – a once-in-a-lifetime chance. He can’t pass up on this opportunity.

They lose against Ireland at Twickenham in the final warmup match, but he forces himself to believe that it’s okay. The Irish aren’t in their pool, so they likely won’t play them again for a good month or so, and then who knows what the state of their teams will be in? Half of Ireland’s first team might be wiped out by injury, for all he knows.

So they lose to Ireland, and then it’s only twelve days left until the opening game against Fiji. Stuart’s given them a bit of a briefing on how the matchday is going to look, with the opening ceremony before the game itself, and a load more dignitaries than usual. It helps Owen settle himself, knowing what’s going to happen and how he’s going to move through the day.

He incorporates it into his visualisations, though it’s hard to know what exactly the opening ceremony will look like. He just makes sure he allows time for it in his mental preparations and hopes for the best. His appointments with Mick have gone up to twice a week to keep tabs on everything, and he’s pretty sure Jamie’s doing the same. It’s just a relief that they’re sharing a room again, so the wider squad won’t be able to find out about it.

The training sessions tick down, drain away like water down the plughole, and then it’s game day. He takes a few deep breaths to centre himself after waking up – Jamie’s still asleep, as per usual – then reaches for his phone. Texts from his mum and friends get quick answers, placeholders until he has the mental bandwidth to reply properly, and Georgie gets a little more attention.

Then, he clicks onto George’s messages. Through some bizarre coincidence, they both have Friday night games this week, with St Helens at home to Wigan. Nevertheless, George has sent a handful of messages already wishing him good luck – _higher stakes for you than me lol_. Owen refutes that immediately – _Wigan’s harder for you than Fiji should be for us, I hope_ – and then thinks about what he actually wants to talk to George about.

George is good for honest conversations, because they just _get_ each other. Whether it’s through shared interests or backgrounds or experiences, he can talk to George in awful half-coherent sentences and he’ll still understand what Owen’s trying to say. He’s never had a connection with anyone else like it, even with the physical distance between them taken into account.

If he had to compare it to anyone he knows in real life, he’d say it was like Elliot and Jamie, except not. Obviously. Because him and George, they’re not like that.

 _we’ll see about that ;)_ George sends back. _your lads are good, my lads are good – we’ll see who does best_

_My England lads or the Wigan lot?_

_England, duh_

_we do not praise Wigan in this text chat_

_(or whatever it’s called)_

Owen snorts, stifling it immediately avoid waking Jamie.

_If you say so, smarty-pants. I need to go for a quick run now, but talk after the match?_

_healthy run???_ George texts back in an instant, and Owen doesn’t blame him.

_Yes, I promise – just ten minutes, to clear my head._

_alright hotshot_

_good luck, love you_

Owen stares at his phone, blinks a bit like it’s the tiredness forming those letters on the screen rather than George actually typing them out and sending them and _meaning_ them.

Huh. Maybe they are more like Elliot and Jamie than he’d thought.

 _Love you too, good luck_ , he dares to send back. Nobody’s else is going to know; it’s fine.

 _for Harry, England, and your BFF George_ , George adds, like that makes the flurry of thoughts in his head any better.

 _You bet_. He really needs this run now, more than he had two minutes ago. Clicking his phone off – it’ll stay that way for the rest of the day – he gets changed in the loo and sneaks down to the gym. Ten minutes won’t hurt, and he’ll get all the expended energy back and more at breakfast. He’s left a note on the bed for Jamie and everything – it’s fine.

He does his ten minutes on the treadmill with nobody around, and he’s almost made it back to the room, confident he’s in the clear, when Ben nearly smacks into him coming round the final corner into his corridor.

Ben gives him a quick up-down look, then frowns. “You’re not – please tell me you weren’t going for a run.”

“Just a quick one,” Owen says, immediately guilty. “Ten minutes. It was a good head thing, I swear, not a bad one. This is the first time in ages, honestly.”

Ben bites his lip, folds his arms. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah, I promise,” Owen says. “I wouldn’t lie about something like that.” Ben raises his eyebrows, and he feels even guiltier. “Not now, anyway. I’m doing better – antidepressants, remember?”

Ben sighs and pulls him in for a hug, apparently content to ignore the sweat drying on his skin. “If you say so, mate. See you for breakfast?”

“Yep.” It makes his skin itch – more than just the sweat by itself does – to think of Ben watching him, now he’s given him reason to worry. He’s almost used to someone monitoring his eating habits by now, what with all Jamie’s mother hen tendencies over the last few years, but being watched for any bad habits or signs of backsliding is just uncomfortable.

“Okay, mate, I’ll see you in a few,” Ben says. He pulls back and slaps Owen’s shoulder. “Got to have our starting flyhalf in top form, after all.”

Owen nods, continuing on his way as soon as he can. He’d told Jamie he’d be back within twenty minutes, and bumping into Ben had cost him at least five of those minutes. He hurries down the corridor and swipes his card to get in, heart pounding almost more than it had done on the treadmill.

“Alright, Faz?” Jamie asks, covers pushed halfway down the bed. He doesn’t look like he’s about to send out a search party, but then again, he’s not playing today. He hasn’t got the same amount of baseline stress flooding through his veins as Owen does.

“Yeah – run was good.” He bends down to pull his shoes off, then snags his towel off the back of the chair.

“Head out of ten?” Jamie asks, when the bathroom door’s half closed.

“Was a five, now it’s an eight,” Owen calls back. It’s their shorthand for how each of them are doing, if they need to check in around the lads or there’s not time for a deeper conversation. Five’s lower than usual, but not by much – he’d argue it’s understandable, given the gravity of the day. He might be kicking off to start the whole World Cup, in less than twelve hours’ time.

“Good,” Jamie shouts back, as Owen closes the door fully. The shower and breakfast should get him up to a solid 8.5, and he shouldn’t ask for more. That would be greedy – and asking for trouble.

They bumble down to breakfast together, and then it’s time for match prep for a couple of hours. Maybe it’s just Owen being hyperaware of his own behaviour, but the rest of the team seem strangely quiet, like the nerves are getting to all of them. Stuart seems to pick up on it too, starting off the morning session with some cricket. That at least gets people talking, if not in the zone for rugby.

The morning walkthrough session, then a break for lunch, and then body activation exercises before they get on the coach to go to Twickenham to play in the opening game of the 2015 Rugby World Cup. Owen’s so tense and excited that he feels constipated and like he’s going to shit himself at the same time.

Jamie sticks close to him, staying by his side as they walk into the stadium through the walls of screaming fans. It’s a big game, the biggest of his life so far, and the pressure and the expectations are only going to ramp up from here.

Then they’re in the locker room, and Owen takes a moment for himself. Amid the hustle and bustle around him – studs clicking on the hard floor, tape ripping, the low murmur of the fans in the stands above – he tries to breathe.

In for four, out for four, like Mick taught him. It would help having something to focus on, but people are walking in front of him too frequently for him to make it worthwhile fixating on any one thing. Instead, he digs his fingers into his thighs a little, a dull ache of pain, and centres himself around that.

Gradually, his stomach settles and the anxious nerves dissipate – to the edges of his mind, if not completely. It’s enough that he feels ready to go out to warm up without worrying that he’s going to trip and fall in front of eighty thousand people before the match has even started. It’s an odd match day anyway, because they warm up and then it’s the opening ceremony – Jonny’s going to be part of it, which is distraction enough in itself. Once that’s done with, the pitch has to be cleared of whatever’s put on it, and then they can finally play.

It’s such a long gap between the warmups and kick-off that Owen is genuinely considering not bothering with all his stretches and usual prep in the allotted slot, because he’ll have stiffened up again by eight.

He wouldn’t do that though, wouldn’t risk putting himself off by making any slight change to his routine. He’s not as wedded to it as some of the guys, but on days like today it’s going to be the reassurance he needs. Jamie’s going to be up in the stands and his mum and his sisters too, and Elliot will be watching from home. They’re helping him through it.

George, too, even though he’s not going to be watching, focused on his own match too much to spare any thought for Owen.

And Georgie – she has to stay late at work, and won’t make it in time for kick-off, so she’s going home instead. He tries not to let it bother him, and he’s surprised how little it actually affects him.

Still, he pushes it all aside and gets to his feet. He might ask for a bit of taping on his right wrist, just to make sure, but apart from that, he feels ready. He’s trained hard enough, and the coaches have picked him to start – he must be ready.

He notices immediately the change in the atmosphere in the stadium. Normally, this kind of buzz would be reserved for a Six Nations title decider, not a should-win match against Fiji, but the energy levels are already ramped up and it’s only the warmup.

The excitement of the crowd buoys him through his practice kicks and the interminable drills they’ve been doing for months. He doesn’t want to jinx anything, but he’s sick of them by now. He’d keep doing them if they get through to the semis or (whisper it) the final, but at the moment they’re just a pain. Anything for the team, though.

The coaches have decided they can watch the opening ceremony, so Owen finds a seat between Jamie and Ben on the bench and settles in.

It’s a good enough story, from his ill-educated perspective, although the giant rugby ball in the middle of the pitch makes him worry about the grass underneath it. He’s not kicking off, thank God, but still – the forwards might struggle for grip underfoot in scrums…

“Just enjoy it, mate,” Jamie says, elbowing him out of his thoughts. “Plenty of time to hype yourself up again afterwards.”

Owen nods, pulling his socks up while still watching the ceremony. Prince William and Prince Harry are both here, and it shouldn’t affect him more than anything else – more than putting on his RWC 2015 England jersey – but it does, somehow. This is a big deal.

Eventually, the opening ceremony finishes, and the lights come back up in the stadium. They’ve got fifteen minutes, according to Stuart, so they’ve got to make every second count. Robbo leads them back inside, the roars of the crowd barely dulled by the thick concrete walls of the locker room.

Owen’s heart shutters as much as it flutters. It’s time for the game, and he’s as ready as he’s ever going to be. Maybe he hasn’t put as much into this as in the past, but that’s probably a good thing. He’s mentally healthier and that’s translated into his physical form too. The whole of this World Cup cycle, from his first England game back in 2012, has been leading up to this moment, this match, this tournament.

It’s important, but other thing in life are important too. His friends. His mum and Gabe. His sisters, on a good day. George.

(He doesn’t bother tacking Georgie onto the end of the list. He’s in the privacy of his own head; he doesn’t need to lie.)

He closes his eyes for a moment, letting the energy of the stadium seep into him. Stuart and Chris are revving up the lads, but he’s never been so calm before a match. It’s going to be okay, whatever happens. He has people who love him, and anyway, it’s Fiji. It’s going to be okay.

At long last, they line up in the tunnel to go out. Owen’s second, right behind Chris, and he forces his face to stay neutral in front of all the cameras buzzing around them. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay. _It’s going to be okay._

He allows himself a few jumps and sprints in the brief moment before the anthems, just to add the final touches to his preparation. It does mean he’s at the far end of the line from Chris by the time they form up, between Billy (ew) and Wiggy (nice enough). There’s a hint of rain gusting onto his face, but not enough to make a difference – hopefully.

Fiji sing first, and it’s spine-tingling enough even with so few people joining in. England’s turn – that’s deafening, practically shaking the earth beneath his feet. He’s not going to cry, but something swells in his gut at the sound of it, eighty-two thousand people yelling their hearts out in the stadium and however many millions more around the world. It’s really happening.

_It’s going to be okay._

Then they have to swivel in the line for the Fijian version of the haka – the Cibi, he’s heard some of the lads call it – and then – and then! It’s time to strip off their jackets, assume their positions – backs back, forwards forward, keeping it simple and traditional like every rugby match up and down the country – and wait for the referee’s whistle.

(He’s just glad it’s not Nigel Owens, today of all days. He doesn’t need that.)

Peyper blows the whistle to start the match and the tournament. The crowd roars. The ball falls to the opposite side of the pitch to Owen, and he breathes a sigh of relief. Not so much that he relaxes, but the tension ebbs a little. It’s just a rugby match, if he ignores the RWC logo plastered on every conceivable surface, even his chest.

_It’s going to be okay._

It feels like he’s barely blinked before England are being awarded a penalty in the Fiji 22. Chris doesn’t even look to check if Owen’s happy to kick it, just points to the posts. He’s fine with it, of course, but a little bit of discussion would have been nice. He’ll pick Chris up on it after the match, if they don’t have bigger issues to sort out.

Some careful breathing and visualisation later (he doesn’t know when the park in Harpenden and the sound of Leo’s soft pants became part of his routine), he kicks the penalty. Three points on the board; the first of the World Cup.

Then they get a penalty try off a rolling maul, Mike Brown scores a ridiculous try off a lineout steal, and they’re 15-0 up. It’s a good start – a great start. Matawalu almost gets a breakaway try that has Owen’s lungs screaming for air as he chases him down, but the TMO lets them off as he drops it over the line.

A few minutes later, Fiji do score, and the atmosphere at Twickenham has been punctured. Owen wants to yell at the crowd almost as much as his teammates – if they let their heads drop now, Fiji are going to be right back in this, and they’ll never get out of the pool of death.

A few more penalties for each side – Fiji miss theirs, Owen gets his – and it’s 18-8 with twenty minutes to go. He’s about ready to up the ante and bring the game home when the call comes that he’s being subbed off for Cips. It’s okay – Cips deserves his chance as much as the rest of them – but it’s annoying. He wants to show a complete performance, if only to reassure himself that he can do it.

(The coaches and the media might have forgotten about him missing the whole Six Nations and not playing a full international match since this time last year, but the dark corners of Owen’s mind haven’t.)

Still, he goes off, shakes hands with all the coaches and the guys on the bench and the guys who aren’t in the matchday twenty-three, seated just behind the bench. It must be awful, to be so close and yet so far from making all their childhood dreams a reality. He can’t complain; he put England in a position to win, and it’s not his fault if Cips and the other replacements can’t deliver.

But they do finish it off, Brownie going in after a nice offload from Cips, and Billy scores in the final play of the game to steal the bonus point at the death.

Owen closes his eyes, imagines the tension draining from his body into the grass beneath his feet. They’ll be back next week for the Wales match, and it’s clear they have work to do. For now, though – he can be happy with what they’ve just done. The 35-11 score line doesn’t exactly cover them in glory, but it gives them the bonus point they need. It’s enough, and he has to be content with that.

Graham’s pushing them all to get up and do their victory lap of the stadium, thanking the fans and waving at them, and Owen shoves himself to his feet with a wince. Maybe it was a good thing he was taken off relatively early; his hamstrings have taken a battering, for some reason. He hadn’t noticed with all the adrenaline of the game before, but now it’s aching like hell.

He walks onto the pitch, trying not to hobble too obviously. It would absolutely make it onto social media, and he doesn’t have the energy right now to be dealing with any injury rumours.

Soon enough, though, Jamie’s jogged up to him and wriggled his way under Owen’s arm, letting him put half his weight onto his shoulders without looking too blatant. “Good game,” Jamie shouts over the noise of the crowd. Even half empty, Twickenham is thunderous. “Really good.” He squeezes Owen’s waist for emphasis.

“Yeah?” He hates looking like he’s begging for approval, but it would be nice to have a little recognition of the good points of his performance before the inevitable dissection in the morning.

“Yeah, absolutely,” Jamie says, knocking their heads together. “Kicking was lovely, and El tells me your passing was top notch.”

“You were texting him, then?” Owen’s not sure why he’s surprised, at this point.

“Well, yeah,” Jamie shrugs. “It’s not like I was actually doing anything to help, so I might as well have been chatting with him then instead of talking for hours later and keeping you awake.”

“We could still call for a bit?” Owen offers. It’s important for Jamie, and George might even join the call if he’s lucky.

“I’ll see when he’s planning on going to bed,” Jamie says. “Oh, and Fordy was six points up against Wigan when I last checked – five minutes ago, so don’t panic.”

“How much longer in the match?”

“Ten minutes by now, I reckon.” Jamie digs his phone out of his pocket with a grin. “Look, you can listen to the radio comms if you want, mate.”

Owne takes the phone shamelessly, opening up the app. It’s second nature by now, when they haven’t been able to watch George’s matches because of a game of their own, or some other valid reason. Usually the excuse isn’t quite this good, but that’s another matter.

The commentator tells him that there are only two minutes left, so Owen deliberately drags his feet and waves extra-thoroughly to the crowd so he can confirm George’s win before he gets to see his mum and the girls. It doesn’t seem to take long, with the excitement rushing through him, and St Helens defeat Wigan 18-12. A good day all round, then, and George should be up for a chat in an hour or so. He hands Jamie’s phone back with a broad grin and goes to talk to his family.

“Owen, love!” his mum calls, leaning over the barrier to wave at him. He welcomes her hug, and then he and his sisters submit to the ordeal of hugging each other. He might not be a teenager anymore, but they very much are. “You played so well.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs, going in for a second hug because – fuck it, he just played in a World Cup match. All the other guys are doing it too, so it’s okay. “Shame about the substitution.”

She clucks at him, smiling fondly. “Better to rest now than be exhausted by the quarterfinals, isn’t it?”

“Yes, mum.” He pretends he doesn’t like being babied, but sometimes it’s nice to imagine that someone still really does have all the answers and will look out for him no matter what. Adulthood’s taken the shine off it a bit, but he can pretend, just for tonight.

“Oh, and Jamie!” she continues, and Owen doesn’t bother turning to check. His friend’s probably loitering a few metres back – he’s already seem his family, and there was less to say because he wasn’t actually playing. “Come here, sweetheart.”

“Evening,” Jamie says gruffly, leaning past Owen to kiss Colleen on both cheeks. “Did you enjoy the game? And you two?” He directs the second question to Gracie and Elleshia, who perk up immediately. He’s basically their cool uncle at this point, and Owen has to accept that.

He steps to the side to talk to the girls, who suddenly have a hundred more opinions than they would have shared with Owen himself. He allows himself to half-hug his mum again, tucked into her side as best he can.

“Georgie couldn’t make it, then?” she asks, careful not to make eye contact.

“She had to stay late at work, and then she wouldn’t have made it in time because of the traffic.” He doesn’t know why it feels like he’s lying, when he’s repeating what Georgie told him almost word for word.

“Oh, that’s a shame.” His mum ruffles his hair. “She’ll be here next week, though? I haven’t seen her in a while, that’s all.”

“I hope so,” Owen says, because he does. Whatever weird strain is weighing on their relationship at the moment, he wants to look past it and have her support – for the duration of the tournament, at the very least.

“Is everything okay-” she starts, but Jamie cuts her off. _Saved by the bell_ , he thinks in relief.

“We should be heading back,” he says, tipping his head towards the tunnel. “Lovely to see you all.”

“And you, Jamie, dear,” Colleen says. “Owen, send your dad over if he’s free, okay?”

Owen nods. She’s never going to know if Andy is free or not, so he can get away with it for now. One last hug, and then they’re leaving again.

“Your sisters are cute,” Jamie says, elbowing him on the way back to the locker room. “They act like they hate you, and then they absolutely love me.”

Maybe he’s just tired from the match, but it’s hard not to feel hurt by Jamie’s words. If they really do hate him – if they have good reason to, with him being out of the house and them still stuck there – then some of that’s on him. He should try and ask them about it, fix it.

He adds it to the mental list of things to do later, once he has a spare second to himself. The best and worst thing about camp is having other people around all the time: attempting a heart-to-heart with his grumpy teenage siblings isn’t going to work in the middle of the gardens at Pennyhill, for example.

Owen’s saved from having to respond by them entering the locker room at that moment. Most of the squad are in there already, and he’s overwhelmed by the deluge of raucous cheering and yelling. They’re not out of the woods yet, not by a long way, but he can’t begrudge the lads a bit of a celebration.

The match couldn’t have gone better, at least in terms of the record books, so he’ll allow them – and himself – the night off. If everything goes to plan, it’s going to be a long tournament, so they will have to let off steam somehow.

Better this than a fight breaking out, anyway.

The coaches give their speeches, grinning broadly (well, all of them except Andy, who’s just about cracked a smile) and Chris lauds them enthusiastically. It’s helpful, to big them up and to give them confidence, but he can’t help but worry that it’s going a little too far. They need to be realistic about their performance.

Nobody seems to share his concerns, so they’re herded back onto the coach after some more cheerful yelling to go back to Pennyhill. Owen knows he should be sharing in the jubilation of the team, but he’s tired after all the highs and lows of the day. He’d like to be in his bed, in his room, all the lights turned off but one, and chatting with George and Elliot. Of course, he’d like a good night’s sleep too, but that’s not his priority right now.

The noise dies down a little by the time they reach Pennyhill, and Owen’s probably too excited to be sent to bed – especially for a twenty-three-year-old man, soon to be twenty-four. Ah well, he’s been told to look after himself and do what’s best for him enough by now that he doesn’t feel too bad about it. If they achieve anything more substantial in the tournament, he might be up for a bigger celebration, but he’s not willing to overdo it on the first night.

He and Jamie go upstairs, chatting to Ben and Wiggy on the way. The two scrum halves are their next-door neighbours, so they shouldn’t have a problem with noise. The rowdier centres’ corridor might have some issues, but Owen’s past the point of caring about that. He just wants to talk to his friends and get as much sleep as he can.

He goes into the room first, flicking on the desk light and nothing else. It’s dim enough to make him sleepy, but bright enough that their faces will actually show up on the call when they start it. The two of them putter around, Owen unpacking his kit bag and Jamie doing something in the bathroom.

He sends a quick message on the chat – _ready for a call?_ – and decides to change into his pyjamas. It’s later than he’d expected it to be, and he’s not going to sacrifice his chat with the boys, so he’s going to have to make up the time somewhere.

The responses ping back in seconds – _yep_ and _give me a second to make my snack_ (from George, unsurprisingly, after his match earlier, and it makes Owen’s stomach growl in sympathy at the idea).

“Mate, you ready?” he asks Jamie. He’s brought a laptop, after all, so Owen’s going to have to wait for him to be done whatever happens.

“Yeah, just brushing my teeth,” Jamie calls back, muffled. “Gimme a sec.”

Owen does a few stretches to fill the time – he’s going to have to get his knee looked at again, just in case – and then Jamie’s finally finished.

“Laptop?” he asks, then laughs when he sees it laid out and waiting on the bed. “Alright then. They’re both free?”

“George was getting a snack, but I think he should be done now,” Owen supplies.

“Nice.” Jamie climbs into bed, then holds the duvet up for Owen to get in too. “Come on, mate – we have to fit on the same screen somehow, and I don’t want you getting cold.”

He clambers in, keeping a careful half a metre away. Has he made it weird now? He doesn’t want to snuggle up to Jamie too much – would it give the wrong impression, given that they’re both attracted to men and they’re calling Jamie’s maybe/probably/most likely boyfriend and a guy that apparently has a crush on him?

Jamie fixes him with a stern look. “Mate, whatever you’re overthinking about, quit it. I’m cold and I want a hug.”

Well, if it’s what Jamie wants… Owen scoots up closer to him, not quite letting their bodies touch but a lot closer than before. “This better?”

“Obviously,” Jamie says, with an eyeroll. “Ready?” He clicks call, and the dial tone fills the room. Elliot joins, and then George a second later, like they’d been waiting.

“Ayup, lads,” George says, through a mouthful of whatever snack he’d ended up getting.

“Is that a bagel?” Jamie asks, incredulous. “It’s half eleven – what are you doing?”

George grins, takes another bite. “Look, I live by myself. I can do crazy stuff like eat bagels whenever I want. It’s the life, I’m telling you.”

“Good game, by the way,” Owen says. He has a feeling Jamie and Elliot might not want to talk about whatever their living situation is, after the issues it had caused their relationship. “Didn’t watch it, obviously, but the score looked good.”

George nods. “It was decent enough, yeah. Thought your Sean was going to score for a while, but nothing happened, thank God.”

Elliot yawns, over the top. “I’ve missed all the excitement, clearly,” he laments. “Two hours of training in the morning and a bit of video, and that’s it until now.”

“You watched our game, though?” Owen says quickly.

“Well, yeah, but it’s not the same,” Elliot replies, looking away from the camera. “You guys were all playing or at least watching in a stadium – I was home alone with my TV.”

“Sometimes that’s what you need,” George says, shaking his bagel to emphasise the point. “Like, right now I needed a bagel, so I’m having one. A night in isn’t always a bad thing.”

“Alright, grandpa,” Elliot says, though he seems a bit happier. “Jamie and Owen – what are you two up to, anyway? Hands where we can see them, please.”

Jamie snorts, holds his hands up obligingly. Owen does the same, then rests his head on Jamie’s shoulder to see the indignant look on Elliot’s face. George is silent – probably because he’s eating.

“Yes, that’s better,” Elliot says decisively. “No funny business, not when you’ve got serious stuff to be getting on with.”

“Not at this time of night,” Owen says, like it makes a difference. “Anyway, we’ve got ages until Wales.”

“Yes, well, I’d like to see you focusing,” Elliot raises his eyebrows. “If I can’t be there, you lot had better be making up for it by actually playing well, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Jamie mock-salutes, jostling against Owen’s shoulder in the process.

“Better than I was expecting,” George says, rolling his eyes, and Owen feels like they’re making eye contact even through the split screen. “Thought you were going to jump straight to daddy.”

Jamie pretends to retch, and Elliot looks appalled. “Georgie – sweetheart – _no_. That is not a thing for us. I mean, good for you if it is, but Jesus Christ, no.”

Owen smiles, tucks himself into Jamie’s side a little more. It’s comfortable, even if they are talking about Jamie’s potential daddy kink. They’re his boys, more than this England team will ever be, and it’s nice to be together again as far as possible. The next time they’ll be able to get together in person will probably be after the World Cup, after George’s season finishes.

It feels almost unfair to hang out without Elliot when the other three are all in the same area, but they can’t exactly _not_ meet when they have the opportunity. He’ll have to check when Sarries are next playing Wasps – if it falls in the six-week window when George is going to be down south, that would be perfect. If not, things are going to be a bit more complicated.

Christmas, though, if George isn’t dating anyone at the moment and Elliot and Jamie don’t have another miscommunication. That’d be nice, like last year. Except-

He still technically has a girlfriend, even if it doesn’t feel like it sometimes. Georgie’s more of a housemate for him at this point, though to the rest of the world it seems like a genuine romantic relationship. If he ditches her for the gay group chat at Christmas – he definitely won’t have a girlfriend anymore.

(It could solve a few issues, but he’s not going to think about that now. Friends to be talking to, World Cups to be winning, etc etc.)

When he refocuses, the conversation has moved on to dogs, for some reason.

“I’d love a dog,” George is saying wistfully. “Like, I miss Leo, but I don’t know if it would work with me being away all the time and not having anyone to watch them at the weekends.”

“Leo?” Elliot asks.

“George’s dog,” Owen supplies. He needs to contribute something to this chat, since he’s checked out of the last few minutes. “Have you never met him?”

Elliot shakes his head. “Me neither,” Jamie says. “Guess it’s just a you two thing – like a lot of things.”

George looks down, smiling. Owen doesn’t know how to feel about it – he gets what Jamie’s insinuating, but it’s really not as special as he’s making out. He met Leo because they lived over the road and he had reason to go to George’s house for kicking. Jamie might have met him, but he didn’t live close enough for it to be a regular thing. If Owen had met George’s hypothetical current dog or significant other, it would be different, but he hasn’t, so it’s not.

“Like league!” Elliot says, incredulous. “No offence, lads, but I don’t know what you see in it. It’s fine, but really? I wouldn’t spend all my time on it like you two do.”

“And I wouldn’t watch cricket if you paid me,” Owen snipes back.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Jamie says in his teacher voice, “let’s not argue about these things. Owen and George like league, me and El like cricket. George only likes guys, the rest of us like girls and all that too. People are different, yes?”

“Yes, dear,” Elliot says, stretching to crack his back. “People are different.”

Owen bites his lip. Obviously this is a safe space – the safest space he could get, pretty much, outside of Mick and his confidentiality agreement – but it feels like a bit too much, or a bit too deep, to dump on them right now that he might not actually like girls. It’s almost midnight, in the first place, and – isn’t it biphobic to stop identifying as bi? He’d ask Elliot, but he’s scared of offending him.

Besides – World Cup, good night’s sleep, all that important stuff to be getting on with. Not that he’s sweeping his sexuality issues under the rug or repressing them (he knows better than that, at long last), but he’s setting them aside for the time being. He’ll come back to it later, when he has the time and the space to think about it properly.

Pennyhill Park on the first day of the World Cup is neither the right place nor the right time for it, so he’s shelving it for the moment. He will come back to it, though: he’s learned the importance of these things.

Jamie yawns against him, making him yawn in sympathy.

“Bedtime for the England boys?” George asks. Either he’s moved on to a second bagel, or the first one’s taken a surprisingly long time for him to eat.

“Might just be,” Owen gets out between stifled yawns. “Long way to go, you know.”

“Alright then,” Elliot says. “We’ll let you get to sleep – on one condition.”

“What?” Jamie asks wearily. The tiredness has hit them both like a chop tackle, out of the blue.

“That you watch my match tomorrow,” he says, looking more twelve than twenty-three in his search for approval. “3pm, and I swear I’ll do better if you watch.”

“Okay,” Owen agrees. “Doubt we’ll have anything scheduled tomorrow afternoon, so we’ll find a way to watch it. Good luck.”

The other two add their best wishes, and then they’re signing off for the night. Owen yawns again when he sees the time – it’s after midnight, and he’s going to be just as knackered in the morning as he is now, only with more aches.

He’s reluctant to leave Jamie’s cosy bed – he’d been crafty, getting Owen’s body heat to warm it up for him while Owen’s own bed is freezing cold – but it has to be done. He goes to the toilet, then braces himself to slide between his icy sheets. The coolness makes his toes curl up and goosebumps prick up on his skin, but he doesn’t have much of a choice.

“Night night, Fazlet,” Jamie says, patting his head when he comes out of the bathroom. “Sweet dreams, World Cup player.”

“Night night, mate,” he answers sleepily. Jamie’s right – he’s a World Cup player now. He hasn’t achieved much doing it, but it’s something to go on the CV, or the Wikipedia page, whichever counts for more.

He falls asleep, comfortable and warm despite the chill bedsheets. Maximum points in the pool, a good chat with his mates, even seeing his mum for a few minutes: everything’s going well for him at the moment, and he hopes to God it stays that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you thought about this - the fiftieth chapter, when we finally reached the 2015 World Cup - either in the comments or on [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com)! This was such a milestone for me to hit, probably the biggest so far after Owen starting to play for England in 2012, so it's nice to be past that point and moving ever onwards. I hope you have all been enjoying reading this as much as I have enjoyed writing it :)


	51. Chapter 51

The Wales match – the less said about that, the better, in Owen’s (pissed off, angry) opinion. They should have played better in the second half, not let it get to the horrible situation of having to choose between the posts and the corner in the seventy-eighth minute from only a few points behind. It’s not Chris’s fault; it could have worked. Chris is who the media and everyone else will be blaming though – the scapegoat, the first one to be lined up to face the firing squad.

(He can think that by Tuesday, after a lot of raging and unnecessary exercise and a timely Jamie-induced intervention from Mick. Before, he wouldn’t have been so rational.)

The game’s done, anyway. It’s happened, they lost, and it’s time to move on to preparing for Australia. He couldn’t call it between Wales and Australia, but there’s no way they’re going through if they play against the Wallabies like they had the previous week.

The rest of the team seem to share his sentiments. It’s heads down, working to get better and rescue their World Cup after only two matches. It’s not the situation they want to be in, so they’ll have to put some effort in to get out of it.

Stuart makes commendably few changes to the squad, trusting his judgement and sticking to his guns. Owen would’ve been offended if he’d been dropped – he scored twenty of their twenty-five points, and he delivered on every front. If Chris had gone for the penalty, he would have converted it to win or at least draw the game, but – that’s not a good line of thought, so he cuts it off. All they can change is the here and now.

Australia is – somehow, it’s even worse. They start well enough, but a flicker of doubt passes through the team after the first Aussie try, and again with the second, and Owen just can’t pull them back into it. He looks to Chris, who seems just as shaken as everyone else, for help, but there’s nothing. God, he’d even take Cips at the moment. At least Danny can yell, while Chris is retreating into himself more with every minute.

It’s agonising and frustrating, seeing time slip away from them like the Australians are slipping through their tackles. Owen throws himself into every hit, turns the air blue around him with screaming, and still nothing changes. The front row goes off, fresh legs come on – no different. It’s like he’s drowning, or in a bubble where nobody can hear him.

Ten minutes left, and there might be a chance.

Nine minutes, and he’s sent off for an absolute bullshit call on a high tackle. The boys on the bench don’t even look at him when he trudges over.

Five minutes – it’s not looking good.

Three minutes – if they get really, really lucky, which – let’s be honest – hasn’t been happening lately.

Two minutes – the booing starts, like that’s going to help anything.

One minute.

Thirty seconds.

The final whistle blows. 13-33, Australia.

Owen drops to his haunches, hangs his head. He’s absolutely exhausted from the game, despite the last nine minutes on the side of the pitch, and his throat feels like he’s swallowed glass. His legs hurt and he’s bleeding somewhere, but it’s nothing compared to the sharp, stabbing desolation inside his head.

It’s their home World Cup. It _was_ their home World Cup. It wasn’t meant to go like this.

He wants to curl up in a ball, right there in front of eighty-two thousand fans, and cry himself to sleep, but he can’t. Any sign of weakness and he’ll be jumped on. Instead, he hauls himself to his feet and does the rounds of the gleeful Australians.

The ache behind his eyes, pulsing through his skull, only worsens.

A hand comes down to rest on his hip from behind, and he startles. “Mate, it’s me,” Jamie says softly, wrapping his other arm round his waist and pulling him from the handshake line. “Come on, give me a hug.”

Owen twists in his grip to tuck his head into Jamie’s shoulder, hiding his face from the spotlights and the cameras and the disappointed stares of the thousands of fans who bothered to stick around.

“We’re fucked,” he murmurs, not sure if Jamie can hear him, but then who cares? Nothing matters at this point. “It’s over. Everyone hates us. Hates me, for that tackle.” He tenses. “Andy-”

“Isn’t getting anywhere near you,” Jamie says firmly, though there’s enough of a catch in his voice to make Owen hate himself even more. Jamie’s got to be hurting just as much as him – more, even, because he has barely had a chance to play. Owen had all the opportunities, and did nothing with them. Not to make it all about him, because it’s a team sport at the end of the day, but he was probably best placed to make the difference. And still, here they are.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, tries to pull away.

Jamie hauls him back into his chest, rubbing at his back. “Don’t be. Look, should we go and say hi to your mum? Would that help?” He shrugs limply. Clearly his decision-making isn’t as good as he cockily assumed it was. He shouldn’t be leaving all the decisions to Jamie, but then this is the worst he’s ever felt, outside of an actual depressive episode.

“Alright then.” Jamie walks him over to the stands. Through bleary, wet eyes, Owen can just about distinguish his mum. The girls didn’t come with her this time, thank God, so he won’t have to add an extra layer of pretence. “Right, you talk to her, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.” His friend leaves him with a final push towards Colleen.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, pulling him in by the hand. “I’m sorry. You did well.” There’s not much left to be said; the school of Andy Farrell has given them both good training in honest post-match critique.

“Shame about the card,” he gets out, before he starts crying again at the memory. The sinking dread in his stomach as the referee had fumbled in his pocket for the yellow – he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget it, or the hissing from the crowd around the England bench.

She strokes his hair. “It’s done now. Anyway, Uruguay next. That should be fun.”

He forces a smile. It should be fun, _if_ he gets picked. The coaches would be perfectly within their rights to drop him after that shambles and give Cips a proper runout, for what it’s worth.

“And you’ll see Georgie soon,” she adds, like it’s meant to cheer him up. She’d come for the Wales game, stuck around long enough to take some photos for her Instagram, and then left. Going to two of his games in a row had apparently been a bit of a push, even for a World Cup. There’s no chance she’ll travel up to Manchester for the Uruguay game, so he might as well resign himself to seeing her next once the tournament’s over for them, in a week and a half’s time.

“Hi, Colleen,” he hears Jamie say from behind him, and he steps back with no small measure of relief. They were about twenty seconds’ awkward silence away from his mum asking where Georgie is tonight, and he doesn’t know if he could explain it to himself.

“Jamie, dear,” his mum says, accepting his kiss on the cheek. “I’m sorry about-” she waves her hand around, and it encompasses the utter shit of the game and the tournament and the last few wasted months in camp perfectly- “all this.”

He feels Jamie’s hand on the small of his back, a quiet _want to go?_ He holds Jamie’s wrist briefly, an answering _stay_.

“It is what it is,” Jamie says, more composed than Owen will ever be in his life. “It’s a shame, obviously, but can’t change it now.”

His mum smiles, endeared. “You’re such a sweet boy. I’m glad Owen has you as a friend.”

Jamie shrugs bashfully. “He’s a good lad. Anyway, we should be off now – got to be yelled at some time.”

“Not you,” Owen says quickly. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Team effort,” Jamie fires back, before returning to Colleen. “Nice to see you – I hope the girls and Gabriel are well.”

With that, Jamie tows him away. Most of the crowd have dissipated by now, just the last few diehard fans and the players’ families clustered around the edge of the lower tier. Owen looks around at the vast emptiness. So many hopes and dreams, all crushed tonight, by him and his team.

He wouldn’t mind sneaking back out here when the lights are all off, just to sit and commune with pitch – to work out what went wrong, and how on earth they can hold this crumbling mess together for another week.

“I heard,” Jamie murmurs in his ear, “that the big bosses are thinking of getting rid of the whole coaching staff after the tournament. Stuart, Graham – the lot.”

“Yeah? Who do you think they’d get instead?” He’s not going to pretend that the thought doesn’t excite him.

“If they can work round the stupid ‘English coaches only’ rule, I reckon, the Japan coach would be really cool,” Jamie says, a hint of genuine enthusiasm in his voice for the first time in days. “What’s his name – Jones?”

“Eddie Jones, yeah,” Owen says. “Apparently he’s hell to work with if he doesn’t like you, though.”

Jamie shrugs. “Can’t be worse than this, can it?” Owen grins through the hurt. He’s got a point.

The rest of the team trickle in, groups of two or three or four coming in and sitting together, huddled as if a storm is raging outside. It’s not outside that Owen’s worried about; it’s the hairdryer treatment they’re most likely going to get now.

But, instead of that, miraculously, Stuart seems to have reverted to his teacher self. It’s like he’s admitted defeat, which is fair enough. The Uruguay match is going to be about pride, and that’s about it. The less experienced guys in the squad will get a go, and Owen’s going to be on for a few minutes at the end if he’s lucky.

Stuart stands up at the front of the room, and the subdued murmur dies down instantly. It’s clear from his face that he’s not about to give them a bollocking, though, so Owen slumps against Jamie’s side, brace position abandoned.

“I could tell you were trying,” Stuart says at last, and that’s a bloody telling opening if ever Owen’s heard one. “You put up a good fight, and I’m proud of you for that. Sometimes it just doesn’t work out the way you want it to.”

Owen can think of a lot of things he’d like to change about this situation. Elliot would be here, for one, and maybe even George too, if he could affect the universe that much. They’d have won this match, or the last one – he’s not picky – and they’d have a solid chance of progressing to the quarterfinals. It’s a nice image, comforting if hollow.

Stuart waffles for a bit longer, speech stuffed with meaningless platitudes and not much more. They’re going to beat Uruguay by a country mile whatever happens, so there’s no point shouting and screaming. Owen’s happy about that: he has enough muted yelling in his head without it being externalised.

Graham and Andy say their parts, and then they’re let go to shower and change and generally pick themselves up and carry on.

(If Owen listens really hard, he can hear the raucous triumph bleeding through from the visitors’ locker room. He hates it.)

Still, he unlaces his boots and digs out the mud from between his studs and brushes it under the bench with his socked feet, as if on autopilot. Then the socks come off, he strips off his shirt – nobody wants to see the RWC 2015 logo right now, thank you very much – and heads to the showers.

It’s warm, which is a start. England in October is never the balmiest of places, so he has warm water to soothe his aching body and swallowed-glass throat and throbbing mind. He’s not shaking as such, but there’s a definite quiver in his hands as he stretches up to get his towel and dry himself off. He’s not shaking, and he’s not crying, so all in all he’s doing a decent job of keeping himself together.

It’s a fine line to walk, though, as he’s well aware, between keeping himself together and tipping over into robot mode. He doesn’t think he will, intentionally at least, but the fear is lurking in the back of his mind like – like the huge 13-33 on the scoreboard, which he’s probably going to see in his nightmares for a good few weeks. 

He’s mostly dressed, unbuttoned shirt and trousers and shoes on, when Chris comes through from the showers. He looks rough, as he has every right to. Along with the coaches, it’s him with his head on the chopping block now, the captaincy removed if he ever does play for England again after Uruguay.

Checking who’s around, Owen goes over to him and sits on the bench next to him. “Mate, it was a good call,” he says quietly. He doesn’t sound like he’s lying through his teeth, which is always a good start. “If we’d gone for the penalty and tied the match, people would have been pissed off anyway.”

Chris nods, though he keeps staring at the floor.

“We’ll have more chances,” he says, trying to encourage his captain. “More Six Nations, more autumn internationals, more tours…”

“But not more World Cups, for me,” Chris bursts out, drawing every eye to him. Owen shakes his head at them desperately. He can’t do this kind of emotional honesty if people are staring. “This was it – my chance, our chance, and I fucked it.”

Owen sighs, pats his shoulder. “We all fucked it, if that’s any help. You’re just the guy that’s going to have to take most of the stick for it.”

“Yeah, at least I won’t have to do that after next week,” Chris laughs darkly. “It was nice being captain while it lasted.”

“You don’t know what’s going to happen,” Owen insists. “You’re playing well, apart from that one call which wasn’t actually a bad one, in the end. Whoever the new coaches are, they might want to keep you as captain.”

“Doubt it,” Chris sighs, looking up at him for the first time. “Look, Faz, if they give me a choice or ask my opinion for who I want for captain – I’m going to say you, alright? You’re what this team needs, and you’re young enough to make it stick.”

Owen remembers his first training camp, back in 2012, when Chris had pulled him out of his panic in the carpark and taken him to meet the rest of the lads, before he’d even been confirmed as captain. Is he really mature enough, experienced enough, to do that himself? He’s twenty-four, and he hasn’t got a clue how to keep himself happy off the pitch, let alone a squad of twenty or thirty rugby players.

“Okay,” he says, because what else is there to say? He can’t disagree with Chris, and turning down a captaincy would be stupid. It’s not a certainty that the new coach will ask for Chris’s opinion, and then even take it into account. “Thanks.”

Chris smiles at him, pats his arm. “You’re a good kid, and you deserved better for your first World Cup.”

“Next time,” he says, putting some enthusiasm into the words. He has a feeling he’ll be saying them a lot over the coming weeks.

His captain nods, then goes back to cleaning his studs. Owen goes back to his stall, checking in with Ben and Jonny and Brad along the way. They should be alright – they have things outside of rugby to focus on for the next few days, while the pain works its way through them – but he wants to make sure.

Jamie’s the last on his round, standing off to one side with the other unused players. Owen picks up his stuff, slinging the bag over his shoulder, and moves over to him. “How’re you doing?” he asks quietly, nudging him with his elbow.

“Disappointed, annoyed, frustrated,” he lists off, shrugging. “Not like I could have done much to change the outcome.”

Owen smiles without adding any meaningless platitudes, because it’s true, especially for Jamie, who hasn’t broken a sweat all day. “Want to do a group call when we get back?” he offers.

“That’d be nice. You want to text?”

“Already on it,” Owen says, showing the chat open on his screen.

 _Anyone want to cheer us up?_ he sends. The other two will definitely have been watching, so it’s not like he needs to explain.

 _reporting for duty_ , Elliot’s text reads.

 _whatever you need x_ George adds.

“Yeah, they’re up for it,” he says to Jamie. “You think two hours will give us enough time to get back and sort everything out?”

“Should do,” Jamie answers.

Owen sends that to the boys, and he and Jamie stand together at the edge of the changing room, watching as their teammates pick up the pieces of this miserable day. Cips is having his thigh looked at, while Dan Cole’s already got a bruise coming up on his cheek. They’ve been through the wars, and it’s all the worse to have nothing to show for it.

All the post-match stuff – media interviews, dinner with the Aussies, the coach ride home, and dismissal for the evening – is done with a minimum of enthusiasm and effort. It’s just – it feels like they’re pretending everything’s fine, like they haven’t been eliminated from their own tournament in the first round, and it will all be alright in the morning.

Instead, it’s a waking nightmare, and they can’t escape. If some other country were hosting, it would be fractionally better, because they could get away from all the stadiums and the wall-to-wall coverage and the newspaper articles, but they all have to stay in England and face the criticism for the next however many weeks.

Thinking about the call with George and Elliot is the one thing carrying Owen through. He drags himself up the stairs to his room, Jamie promising to come over in five minutes once he’s put his stuff away.

He lets himself sit on the end of his bed for a minute, dark and alone.

It wasn’t his fault, not entirely.

They were unlucky.

They’ll have to work harder next time, but it’s over for now.

Nothing they can do about it, so they might as well make the best of it and enjoy the last match.

(He doesn’t know how much he believes it, but it eases the ache in his heart a little.)

The knock at the door comes a few minutes later, and he makes sure to flick on the lights before letting Jamie in.

“I brought snacks,” Jamie says, holding up a packet of marshmallows along with his laptop. “My mum gave them to me earlier – thought we needed them.”

“She’s not wrong there.” Owen climbs into bed and waits for Jamie to slide in alongside him before tucking the duvet around his legs to his satisfaction. It’s about the little things, sometimes, to keep your head above the water. This is one of those things – marshmallows and a warm hug and a chat with his friends.

Given the circumstances, he’s impressed with how well he’s dealing with it all.

George connects to the call first, with Elliot’s face joining a split second afterwards. “I love you both,” Elliot says hurriedly, like he’s practised it. “I won’t pretend I’m not jealous that you had the opportunity to be knocked out of a home World Cup when I didn’t, but I’m here for you, whatever you need.” He stops, raises his eyebrows as if waiting for George to say his part.

“Yeah, like El said,” George says. He looks a bit red, but it’s probably because the heating’s turned up too high at his house. That’d always been something Owen noticed, wherever George lived: how warm he always felt. “Love you both, really sorry for how it’s turned out, but hopefully see you soon.”

“When’s your season finish?” he asks, before anyone has a chance to dive deeper into his performance. He’s dealing well with stuff right now, but he’s not sure how he’ll cope with criticism from his closest friends.

“Well, Super League finished for us last week, but the New Zealand tour is in a couple of weeks, so middle of November?” Either George is avoiding eye contact, or he doesn’t know where the camera is on his laptop.

“When’s camp for that start? Monday?” He doesn’t care if Jamie and Elliot are bored by this (they can text about cricket, for all he cares) – he just needs a sense of normality, and league gives that to him.

“Yep. Should be fun,” George says.

“More interesting than what I’ve got going on,” Elliot chimes in. “We’ve had an extra meeting scheduled about the rainbow laces stuff, and I think they’re going to tie in Sam Stanley as well. It’s going to be bloody awful.”

Owen bites his lip. If a similar meeting’s going to happen at Sarries, he can honestly admit he’s glad he won’t have to be there.

“Nobody’s said anything bad, have they?” Jamie asks, sitting up straighter and knocking the laptop sideways where it’s balanced on their knees.

“No, but…” Elliot starts. “It’s more the _not_ saying things, sometimes, you know? Just because they’ve kept what they think to themselves doesn’t mean it’s going to be positive when we have to talk about it.”

“Talk to your captain about it,” George says, taking the words from Owen’s mouth. “You’re out to him, right?”

“Technically, but you know that doesn’t count for much,” Elliot says, looking off to one side. “I reckon Launchers is a decent bloke about gay stuff, but it’s how much he’d be willing to shut up the arseholes.”

Nobody has anything to say to that. It’s true, for most of their teammates, across their three clubs. They’d like to think people would speak up for them and lend a hand, but actually challenging people on their views is more difficult than just promising to.

The silence drags on. What are they meant to talk about? Wasps have had a fairly torrid start to the season, St Helens were knocked out in the semis, and Owen and Jamie are in their last throes in the pool of death with England. It’s hard to find any positive topics of conversation. Wasps and Saracens are next scheduled to play each other the day after Boxing Day, but that’s about it.

Eventually, Elliot scrounges up the memory of some prank Christian played on the boys during the week – Owen’s pretty sure they’ve all heard the story via text anyway, but he’s content to let him ramble on regardless. Being together, in whatever form they can get it, is enough for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com)!


	52. Chapter 52

They play against Uruguay, for what it’s worth. Jamie doesn’t get the start, which Owen is furious about on his friend’s behalf, but it’s one-way traffic after Berchesi kicks the first points of the match. Jack and Nick Easter both get hattricks, which is nice enough, but they finish the tournament with a 60-3 victory and not a lot else.

(The fans sing _Swing Low Sweet Chariot_ at the final whistle, making him feel a little better, but that’s not hard right now.)

A few days later, the squad breaks up, and it’s hard not to think of it as the end of an era. Over the past few days, the whispers from the RFU have turned into murmurings and rumblings, and it’s clear that the group that meets up for the Six Nations is going to be very different from the one that is leaving now.

The coaches will be completely different, if nothing else; Stuart had already informed them of his resignation before the statement went out to the media, and the other coaches have followed his lead. Owen won’t have to be around Andy for more than a few days a year, at this rate, and he’s grateful for small mercies.

He’s carpooling with Jamie and Brad back to St Albans, which is a nice way to ease himself back into normal life after the stifling groupthink of a long tournament. This kind of low is normal for him, he knows by now, but that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. The antidepressants are firmly engrained in his schedule, Mick’s appointments are a regular fixture on his calendar, and he’s still worried about the next few weeks.

Being back with Saracens should help, but all the England players have been instructed not to attend training for the next week so they can decompress from being in camp for so long. It’s not what he wants or what he thinks will be best for his mental health, but the rules are the rules and he shouldn’t argue with them.

Jamie drops him off at the door with a hug. It’s the middle of the day on a Wednesday, so he shouldn’t be surprised that George’s not home, but he’s still somehow disappointed. “We should do something this week,” Jamie mumbles into his shoulder. “I can’t take just sitting around for five days with nothing to do.”

Owen nods. “Of course, mate.” Then he has to step back and let Jamie go, before he does anything embarrassing like cry. This is it – the World Cup is really, truly over. The nightmare is settling into reality.

He picks up his bags where he’s dropped them on the front step, unlocks the door, and goes inside. He’s been home a few times since training camp started, but he could count those times on the fingers of one hand. It’s strange, being at home, being completely alone, for the first time in months. It makes him want to curl up on the sofa in a ball and not move until the overwhelming anxiety subsides, but he tries to push through it.

He needs to have lunch, first of all. He checks the fridge and sighs. Yeah, he really hasn’t been home in a while; it’s all Georgie’s low-fat yoghurts and kale, nothing that would constitute a solid meal in his book.

He closes the fridge again, goes out to the freezer. There are probably some burgers he can defrost that will actually fill him up, instead of feeling too hungry and pissed off about it. Back in the dark days, he would have felt the ache and welcomed it, but he’s got a handle on his warning signs by now. He needs a square meal, and soon.

The freezer yields up the pack of frozen sausages, and he sticks them on the side to defrost while he finds some other food with any kind of nutritional value to supplement the meat. The best he can manage is a sausage sandwich with a hodgepodge of salad, but it’ll do for now.

It’s when he sits down to eat at the empty table, in his empty house, that it really hits him. Nobody’s around to prepare his food for him anymore, or for a quick chat over a meal, or to play too much FIFA with in the evenings. It’s quiet, and he can practically hear the wind in the trees outside with how little noise is reaching his ears.

He eats the sandwich and picks through the miserable salad leaves, adding some ketchup to make them more palatable. It’s not something he would have done in camp, with all the team and the nutritionists and the coaches watching him every second of the day, but he’s allowed now.

That’s the positive side of this isolation, he supposes – there’s no one around, but there’s also no one around. He can veg out on the sofa for a couple of hours if he feels like it, or eat the half-empty tub of ice cream he found in the freezer without having to hide the evidence. He won’t, but he could.

He’s on his own now, for better or for worse.

Then again, he’s not completely by himself. Georgie will be at home in the evenings and at the weekend, so he has some company.

The thought triggers a distant memory from a couple of weeks ago – not too long ago, in real time, but the other side of the massive mental divide that separates before the World Cup and after it. He doesn’t have totally free time for the next few days; he has some stuff to work out.

Georgie’s his girlfriend, has been for years, but it’s almost uncomfortably too long given how he feels (or more importantly, doesn’t feel) about her now. Is it just a Georgie thing, and he’s ready to break up and move on to another girl or guy now the spark’s gone, or is it a _total lack of attraction to women shit am I gay_ thing?

On second thoughts, the ice cream might be a good idea. He dumps his empty plate – salad in winter is the worst – by the sink and goes to dig out the tub. It’s some weird cheesecake variety that Georgie likes, but he’s not going to be picky. Beggars can’t be choosers, and he needs the emotional support.

Owen settles down on the sofa, pulling a blanket over his legs to counteract the ice cream. The tick of the clock is deafening in his solitude, but he can’t bring himself to move it or turn it off. Any background noise could be a distraction, and he welcomes that. He should think about this, undoubtedly, but he’s also scared to, for all the reasons he’s come up with before and then some.

It doesn’t help that he’s got a wildly uneven base of experiences to work off, either. He’s been with girls – kissing them, sleeping with them, dating them – for years, and he’s had one single kiss with a guy, and not one he was attracted to at that.

Trying to visualise random, generic people doesn’t do much to help. Like, how does he know if this hypothetical person he’s conjured up in his head has a good personality to match their appearance? Jamie has the sparkling character, for sure, but they’ve just been friends for too long for it to be comfortable thinking about dating him. Elliot, as well – he’s too attached to Jamie in Owen’s head to even consider getting the middle of that.

George, though – George would be perfect, in an ideal world: shared interests, shared history, similar backgrounds, strong connection already…

He can’t do that. He shouldn’t. It would be cruel to bring up George’s crush again, and anyway, he’s supposed to be figuring out his feelings or lack thereof of towards guys and girls, not anyone specific.

Crossing Georgie off the list and replacing her with George would solve a lot of problems, but life isn’t that simple. It can’t be.

Owen crams another spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. He’s nearly finished it – either he needs to find something else to eat his feelings with, or it’s a sign that he’s done enough thinking for today.

The rattle of a key in the lock takes the decision away from him. He looks through to the hall, surprised by how much darker it has become since he sat down to sort his head out. He wasn’t under the illusion that it would be an easy fix, but he hadn’t imagined it taking three hours just to work through the first few bullet points on his mental list.

“Hello,” he says awkwardly, half in and half out of the hallway. They haven’t seen each other since the Australia match, and the texts haven’t exactly been frequent.

“Hello, darling,” Georgie says, reaching up to kiss his cheek. “It’s good to have you home.”

He smiles, takes her bag and carries it through to the kitchen for her. He can’t tell if she’s being sincere or his own doubts are reflecting onto his perception of her behaviour. Whatever it is, he should probably talk to her about it.

“Good day at work?” It’s boring, but what else do they have to talk about? The entire country knows how his week’s been, so she won’t want to hear about that, even if she hasn’t been paying attention to rugby news.

She shrugs, hugging him briefly before going back out to the hall to hang her coat up. “Could have been worse. Traffic was a nightmare, so dinner might be a bit late.”

“Oh, I can make tea – if you want?” Owen offers immediately. He can at least control his portion size that way; he needs to wean himself off the bigger England meals that come with so much intense training. For Saracens, he needs to dial it down a bit.

“That would be great, thanks,” she calls, already halfway up the stairs. “I just need to get changed, and I’ll be right back down.”

He nods, steeling himself for another inspection of the fridge. He’d used most of the stuff he’d want to eat for lunch, so he’s going to have even fewer options left this time. Still – he’s allowed a cheat meal every once in a while, although usually he’d plan it in advance and actually be looking forward to it. Quiche and lettuce and a shitload of pasta wasn’t exactly what he was hoping for in his first proper meal at home in months, but it’ll have to do.

In the end, Georgie’s not back until he’s in the process of serving the food. “Looks delicious,” she says approvingly, hooking her head over his shoulder before taking her plate to the table and sitting down. “I’d forgotten how much you eat, though – I’ll have to stock up at the weekend!”

He holds in a sigh. She’s probably just trying to deal with the awkwardness in the same way as him, and it’s coming across as a little pointed. He takes the spoonful of pasta he was about to put on his plate and puts it back in the colander. He can eat it tomorrow, or she can take it to work for lunch – is that something she does? He can’t remember.

He sits down opposite her, fighting the urge to compare their portion sizes. It would be noticeable enough, given their relative heights, without his athlete-mandated higher intake, but as it is, it looks ridiculous and he feels bad.

Another tally mark in the column for _being in camp_ versus _not being in camp_. Surrounded by rugby players, a good few of whom were bigger than him, he was the norm, not the exception.

They eat in silence, and Georgie excuses herself afterwards to call one of her friends who’s apparently pregnant – Owen hadn’t known anything about it, and he’s not surprised at this point. He gets halfway through loading the dishwasher before he breaks and texts Jamie.

 _SOS it’s really fucking awkward!! We literally have nothing to talk about!_ He adds a grimacing face emoji at the end for good measure.

He’s finished the dishwasher – no sign of Georgie – by the time Jamie replies.

_Sucks for you – maybe put a film on? Then you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, and you can Netflix and chill if the vibe’s right._

_(And it probably will be by now, lol.)_

Owen wrinkles his nose. The first bit of advice, he can get on board with. The second part – he’d rather not, especially with all the confusion in his head about this stuff.

_I’ll give it a go – want to come over Saturday? We can watch the game._

_IF you ask Georgie first_ , Jamie replies. _I’m not getting in the middle of you two._

 _I will, don’t worry about it. Wish me luck!_ Another grimacing face, and he can see this becoming a pattern.

 _Haha hope you make it until Saturday!!_ Jamie pings back, and Owen has to shove his phone back in his pocket before he tells his friend exactly what he thinks of that message. He’s already got one awkward relationship to maintain; he doesn’t need another.

He’s looking through his options on the _recent releases_ page when Georgie comes into the living room. “I thought we could watch a film, maybe?” he says, trying to hide his uncertainty. He’d rather go to bed and hide for the rest of the evening, but he has to be seen to be making an effort.

“Oh, that’s a nice idea,” Georgie says. She sits down beside him and takes the remote.

 _Mad Max_ , Owen wouldn’t mind, or _Kingsman_ or the new _Mission Impossible_ – he’s heard good things about it from Elliot, who hasn’t been cooped up with England for the last four months. Then there’s the new James Bond movie, which could be good.

“How about this?” Georgie asks, tipping her head at the screen. Owen bites his lip to keep from cringing when he sees what she’s selected.

 _Fifty Shades of Grey._ God, he’s going to die.

He’s sure he heard one of the lads saying that it’s a film for middle-aged women, so why does Georgie want to watch it? It’s going to be excruciatingly awkward, surely. Still, he can’t say no – he’s been a bad enough boyfriend recently without forcing her to watch an action film when she’d prefer some light pornography.

“Go on then,” he croaks out. He can’t even decide whether this will be a funny story to tell the group chat, or something he’s immediately going to repress and never think about again.

She snuggles up to him, evidently pleased as the film loads. “I was going to watch it when it came out, but then I thought I’d save it to watch with you.” The juxtaposition of her hand on his thigh and the notion of coming out on her lips makes his skin crawl, because he really needs more mental confusion right now.

Unable to put anything he’s feeling into words, he settles for a noise at the back of his throat which hopefully sounds more like masculine agreement than a panicked squeak. It’s going to be fine. He can just pretend to fall asleep or something.

(Might be difficult with this film in particular, but he’s willing to give it a go. He’s desperate, and not in the way Georgie would probably like him to be.)

He grits his teeth through the first however many scenes, the hand that Georgie isn’t holding balled into a fist, knuckling into the cushion. It’s the contract, first, that makes him twitchy, and then Christian (looking unfairly hot) saying how he’s _fifty shades of fucked up_.

It’s too close to home for Owen, and not in a good way. “I’ve got to go to the toilet,” he mumbles, freeing himself from his girlfriend’s grip and fleeing the room. He’s not about to have a panic attack; he’s just deeply uncomfortable. It’s only going to get worse from here, and if Georgie’s reaction to the first half an hour is anything to go by, he’s going to struggle not to disappoint her.

Fucking hell, isn’t this movie supposed to be something to laugh about, not get all angsty over? He’s – this sexuality stuff is messing with his head, almost worse the second time round than it was at first.

It would be so much easier if he were straight, he thinks, scrubbing his hands clean in frustration. Then he could be turned on by a stupid film and have sex with his girlfriend who he could be in love with, and not hide in the loo for five minutes while he gets his act together.

But – no.

He’s closer to his best friends because of not being straight, and it isn’t something he can choose anyway. It’s a pain at this exact moment, but then he’d put himself in this situation. It’s not the fault of his sexuality, but his awkwardness in being unable to disagree with Georgie.

Splashing some water on his face, he goes back through to the living room. Burnout from the World Cup is a good enough excuse, and it’ll work for long enough that he can claim tiredness from training again, and then once that stops working – well, he’d like to have figured out whether he’s bi or gay or something else by then, so he doesn’t have to pretend anymore.

It’s looking more and more like the inevitable conclusion to this is breaking up with Georgie, and he’d feel bad about that. He might be stringing her along now, but she’s enjoying herself – or enjoying living in this house for the last few months as if he didn’t exist, at least.

“I paused it for you,” she smiles, taking his hand as he sits down beside her. He nods, smiling back like he’s happy about, then yawns to sell the lie. It’s not late yet, by any stretch of the imagination, but he needs to lay the groundwork first.

The grunting and groaning and slapping sounds from the TV only increase as time goes on. Owen has to fight to keep his eyes open, not from tiredness but because he’d rather be anywhere else. He’d rather be in England league camp with George, straight off the back of the union one – anything to be out of this agonising situation.

“Hey, Owen,” Georgie whispers, one hand sliding up his chest. “I missed you while you were away.”

“I missed you too.” God, this is awful. He has the choice between looking at his girlfriend, who is definitely angling for sex, or the hot guy on the television getting off to the female lead’s pain. It’s a tough decision – he’d rather run all the way to Jamie’s house right now, in the dark and the cold, than have to decide and stick with one or the other.

Her hand’s going back down now, tracing at the hem of his T-shirt, and he knows he has to stop her here before it goes any further. “I’m tired, love,” he says, catching her wrist and inadvertently making eye contact with the hot guy on the TV, he’s trying so hard not to look at Georgie. “Long week, long month, you know how it is.”

She pouts, but seems to take the explanation at face value. “Okay, sweetie. Should I turn this off?”

He nods, exhaling in relief when the TV goes black. _Mad Max_ wouldn’t have given them this problem.

“Have you got anything planned for the weekend?” Georgie asks as she slides her hand round his waist. He takes comfort in its utterly platonic intent, wrapping his arm around her shoulders in return.

“I was thinking about asking Jamie to come round to watch the match on Saturday, but he doesn’t have to if you don’t want him here,” he says, mentally crossing his fingers.

“No, it’s fine,” she says, turns her head to kiss his fingers. “I was actually going to ask if you’d be alright with me meeting up with some of the girls in town on Saturday afternoon, so that’s worked out perfectly.”

“Oh, right,” he says faintly. He’s relieved, but at the same time slightly offended. He’s glad that she’s not going to be around to provide Jamie with a live show of just how awkward they are with each other, but he doesn’t want to make their relationship look as clunky as it really is.

“If you’re tired, do you want to go to bed?” Georgie asks, and he has the distinct feeling he’s being sent to bed like a child.

“Okay,” he agrees, kisses her quickly. He can manage that, at least. “You coming?”

“In a bit. It’s still early – and I haven’t been doing as much as you have lately.”

He nods again, taking the out and going upstairs. For all he’d been faking it earlier, he is genuinely ready for bed now, and falling asleep has to be easier without his girlfriend next to him to provoke all his unhelpful sexuality-related thoughts. Not having Jamie’s snoring from across the room might be more difficult than Georgie cuddled up to him, after months of the former with none of the latter.

Still, he’s adjusted before and he can do it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote these chapters such a long time ago that rereading them before hitting post is such a weird experience - I feel like I'm having the same experience as all of you, even though it's my own writing.
> 
> Also, I really appreciate all the comments and kudos - having a very hectic time at the moment but I promise I will get back to you all!
> 
> [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).


	53. Chapter 53

It’s surprisingly easy, in the end, to act like the World Cup never happened – a horrible nightmare – and to press on with Saracens. He and Georgie seem to alternate nights they’re out of the house, so he can almost pretend that’s not an issue either.

He gets nine points against Gloucester in his first match back in the Premiership, and he and Jamie both play the full eighty minutes. Owen starts at twelve and only moves over into the flyhalf position once Charlie goes off on the hour, but it’s enough to get rid of the cobwebs and feel like he genuinely can start fresh. It’s not quite the new World Cup cycle yet, the final coming next week, but he’s treating it like it is.

The next week is Halloween, and Sarries are at home to London Irish with a 1pm kick-off. It means they’ll be able to watch most of the World Cup final, and he’s not sure how he feels about that. Just ignoring it and focusing on George’s game against New Zealand tomorrow would be his preferred option, but he’s not so lucky.

Mark and the other coaches have decided, in their wisdom, that it would be a good team bonding activity to have them watch it together in the clubhouse once everyone’s showered and changed after the match. Owen skulks in at the last second, claiming a bar stool at the back where he won’t have to look at the screen too much.

If there’s an upside to it – he can at least join Elliot and Jamie’s texting ritual for once, instead of reading it after the fact. George might be watching too, wherever he’s in camp, and that’s the thought that makes him get his phone out, ignoring the dirty looks from the other guys in the squad. He doesn’t get the chance to watch games with George very much, even like this, so he’s taking advantage of it while he can.

Owen hasn’t been paying attention to any of the media hype around the match, so it takes him by complete surprise when he sees the referees jogging out of the tunnel behind the players. Dan Carter, eat your heart out – Nigel’s in the middle.

His phone starts buzzing almost as soon as he’s unlocked it to text the group chat.

 _Nigel loml_ , Elliot’s sent. _sorry J but it’s true_

 _whatever, you know he’s number one in my heart_ , Jamie replies, and Owen can see him grinning at his phone on the other side of the room.

George has settled for a succinct _NIGEL!!!_ , and he’s relieved he doesn’t have to hear about his best friend’s attraction, however serious, to the referee. They’re both short and brown-haired, but that doesn’t make a good match. All of George’s exes have been tall and blond, so that’s another mark against Nigel.

The chat doesn’t stop pinging until the haka, when it suddenly goes silent. Owen sneaks a look at Jamie between the heads of their teammates separating them, and he’s gratified to see Jamie looking as open-mouthed as he feels.

Shit, has the haka always been this hot?

It’s so masculine and powerful and downright terrifying that he has to shift in his seat slightly to get comfortable again. If he’d been facing that haka on the pitch – probably best not to think about it. He can’t imagine how he’s going to cope with seeing Beauden Barrett in person, next time they play each other. _Wow._

 _I’m not the only one feeling a bit warm after that, right?_ Elliot has sent, and it’s a relief that he doesn’t have to bring it up himself.

 _mark me down as scared AND horny_ , Jamie adds.

_lads – I have to face that tomorrow, fml_

And yeah, he’d forgotten that. It’s not going to be the same guys, but the spirit and the intensity of the thing will be the same. He’s not sure whether to be jealous of George or relieved it’s not him.

 _ahhaahhahah_ , Elliot types. _I’ll be watching out for that, in a no homo way_

 _you’d better >:-(_ Jamie sends.

God, Owen really needs to get up his nerve and ask what’s going on with the two of them. For all he knows, they could still be together and calling every night, or they’re just in some flirty middle ground. It’s hard to decide, either way, although that’s probably just testament to the strength of their relationship and their refusal to give a fuck, after everything.

 _Haha good luck mate_ , he says belatedly, catching Jamie staring at him. He’s not thinking about George being turned on by the haka, he’s not.

(Except for how he kind of is, the image pushed into his mind by the man himself.)

He shakes himself, forces himself to focus on the screen. Nigel – lovely, gay Nigel – is about to start the match, with Foley – helpfully sporting some ugly stubble – kicking off for Australia. He’d love to be in Foley’s place, of course, but he’s almost over it by now. He has the chance to watch a World Cup final with his mates, in the closest way they can manage. He wouldn’t necessarily swap the former for the latter, but it’s a nice enough compensation.

The momentum of the match swings to and fro, until the All Blacks seem to grab hold of it and refuse to let go. He’s only half paying attention, though, a quarter of his brainpower directed towards reading the messages on the group chat and the final quarter trying desperately to act normal.

Really, it’s fine for Elliot, because he’s probably at home, or with a few people at most. George is with England, so that’s a bit of an issue, but he’s confident enough to play it off if anyone asks what he’s texting about or why he’s so red.

(Although George wouldn’t go red. He’s too cool with being gay.)

Jamie’s quick enough to get away with most things, able to knit together a plausible explanation in a matter of seconds while Owen’s still struggling to form a coherent sentence. He just knows his cheeks are flaming red with all the innuendoes the boys are putting on the chat, and being at the back of the room won’t save him when it’s half time and everyone starts moving around.

If he makes a run for the loos, he just might get away with it, but it’s a big ask. Pretending it’s just watching a really good match of rugby that’s made him all flustered could do the trick, depending on his acting skills. They’re not the best, so bolting out of the room as soon as Nigel blows the whistle to end the half seems like the only practical option.

The whistle blows, New Zealand going in with a 16-3 lead, and Owen legs it as soon as it cuts to the adverts. He dives into the closest toilet (questionable decision, but more chance of someone finding him running around the club if he goes further) and locks the door of the cubicle behind him. He hasn’t got any water to splash on his face in here, but a few breathing exercises could work.

He’s about halfway through the exercises Mick recommended to him when the door crashes open, jerking him from his meditative state.

“Faz? Faz, are you in here? It’s Brad,” someone says, like that particular South African accent could be anyone else. “Are you alright?”

He takes one last deep breath, flushes the toilet for effect, then unlocks the door. “Yeah, I’m fine. What’s up?”

Brad runs his hands through his hair, looking more wild-eyed than Owen’s ever seen him. “Yeah, yeah, no, everything’s good. We just – Jamie saw you run out, and we thought something might be up.”

He closes his eyes, exhales more forcefully than is strictly necessary. “I’m fine,” he repeats, not opening his eyes. “Seriously. I wasn’t having a panic attack, or whatever he said to you.”

Brad sighs. “He didn’t say anything to me about that. I just thought it would be about you being mad we went out in the pool, that kind of thing. Genuinely, he said nothing.”

Owen opens his eyes, makes eye contact with Brad. He’s holding up his hands defensively. “Okay, fine. I needed a minute, that was all.”

“If you say so,” Brad says, holding open the door. “Want to come back now? Mark’s brought some beer out for the boys, if you’re interested.”

He nods – like he has a choice in the matter. “Go on then. Let me just text Jamie first.” He’s barely five words into his apology message when Jamie comes barrelling into him, virtually knocking him into the wall of the corridor.

“I know I’m not meant to be babysitting you,” he says, low and fierce into Owen’s neck, “but you really looked out of it when you left. I was worried, mate.”

Owen screws his eyes shut. God, he’s going to have to admit it, and it’s going to be awful. He’s either going to be teased forever, or Jamie’s going to try and be supportive about it. Not that he wouldn’t appreciate that, but they are in the middle of the clubhouse and the second half’s starting in about eight minutes.

“It was just – you know what we were talking about, with the haka and all that, before the game?” He’s suddenly glad that Brad had gone back to the bar before Jamie found him. “I just needed a bit of time to act normal, that’s all.”

Jamie pulls back, splutters, “You were _getting off_ in the loos and I thought you were freaking out? I don’t know if I’m impressed or not!”

Owen fixes him with a stare, eyebrows raised in panic. “No – God, no. I was trying to calm down, not get off!”

Jamie snorts. “Ah, well. There’s a first time for everything, mate.”

“What, and you have?” This conversation is getting out of hand.

“I think you walked in on me and El once,” Jamie says, and that is decidedly not what Owen wanted to hear. “Like, back in U18s, something like that? It was during dinner, and we thought we were by ourselves and then you were in there too.”

He has a sinking feeling he remembers the occasion. He was doing squats and stuff to work off the excess energy from the coach journey to wherever it was, and then he heard a noise that he assumed was someone else in the loo, not – not two of his best friends having sex, fucking hell.

“Right,” he says, starting to walk back to the bar. He’s going to need some time to process that one, Jesus Christ. “Thanks for that, mate.”

“You’re welcome!” Jamie singsongs from behind him. “Payback for making me worry about you.”

Owen sighs, making sure to not make eye contact with anyone. They’d never guess what he’s just learned, but he doesn’t want questions about just why he looks so traumatised. Really, watching this final is more of a blessing than he’d first realised.

It helps that New Zealand are playing so well. Unfortunate haka-related thoughts aside, focusing on the attractiveness of their rugby is easier than the attractiveness of the individual players. Dan Carter’s coming to Racing after this, which might be a problem, but he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it. The main challenge ahead of him now is acting normal when he goes home to Georgie, like he’s just been watching a rugby match and not watching a rugby match while having a Kiwi-induced gay panic/crisis/hot flush.

“You coming round to watch Fordy’s game tomorrow?” Jamie asks quietly, catching him by the arm as he tries to beat a hasty retreat. It’s nice for the All Blacks to have their back to back World Cups, but he’s not very interested in watching the celebrations. He’s mostly over it, with the remaining 3% bitter and frustrated at seeing the trophy being handed over to McCaw.

“Probably,” he replies, equally quietly, so as not to catch anyone else’s attention. George isn’t a secret – the other lads wouldn’t be much interested in him anyway – but they don’t want gate crashers who have no idea what they’re watching. Owen’s had enough of that with Ben, thank you very much. “I’ll have to ask Georgie, but she won’t care.”

Jamie pulls a face, but quickly smooths over the expression. “Alright, mate. See you at – half four? Kick-off’s at five, so you’ll have plenty of time.”

“Okay. See you soon.” With that, he leaves the clubhouse, heading out into the dark carpark to go home. The ease of the win against London Irish notwithstanding, it’s been a long day. He’s about ready for a nap, seen as he’s already used up his cheat meal allowance for the week.

As he’d predicted, Georgie sends him on his way with a peck on the cheek and not much else. He has a feeling that things are going to come to a head sooner or later, but – whatever. He has a game to watch, and he’d much rather be doing that than worrying about a relationship he’s not even sure he wants to be in. George and the boys are his priority right now.

He texts Jamie that he’s setting off, then gets going. He’s excited to see George play, especially in such a big game. Sure, his uncle and cousin are starting for England too, but that’s not as personal, not as exciting, for him. He hadn’t grown up talking about playing in this kind of matches with Sean or Liam, so he doesn’t feel the same connection or investment in their performance.

George deserves to do well. He’s worked so hard for the chance to play in big games – Owen’s witnessed it first-hand. Besides, it’s England against New Zealand: it doesn’t get much bigger than this in rugby terms.

He pulls into Jamie’s drive and walks up to the door. It’s raining a little, but nothing too bad. On the other hand, if it’s like this up in Leeds, they could have an issue. George’s free-flowing style – and the team built around it – won’t work too well in greasy conditions.

Jamie’s holding the door open before he has the chance to knock. “Ayup, Faz,” he says brightly. “Cup of tea?”

“Alright,” he says, peeling off his coat. It’s damp rather than soaked, but he assumes Jamie would prefer him not to drip all over his sofa.

“TV’s on when you’re ready!” Jamie calls through from the kitchen, so he goes in and takes a seat. The pundits are running through the teams – Zak’s playing too, at fullback, which Owen hadn’t quite registered. The Kiwis are all NRL players so he doesn’t recognise many of them, but the thought of the impending haka makes him not care about that.

He can appreciate their appearances without knowing their stats, after all.

A couple of minutes before kick-off – before the haka, more importantly – Jamie bustles through with two cups of tea and his laptop tucked under his arm. “For Elliot,” he says, like it needs explaining. “He’s watching on his own TV, but it’ll be fun to chat properly during it.”

Owen nods, takes the tea. If he sticks his face in the steam enough now, he can pretend that’s why he’s all red after the haka. It’s the perfect plan, even by his standards.

Jamie sets up the laptop, calls Elliot, and settles in to watch the teams run out onto the pitch. Hull KC Stadium isn’t Twickenham by any stretch of the imagination – there’s about 23,000 spectators, compared to the 82,000 crammed into HQ – but it’s loud. The usual flamethrowers are going off, undaunted by a few spots of rain, and the anticipation’s building in Owen’s stomach as if he were in the stadium himself.

The anthems happen – he always feels a bit awkward about it, like he should be singing but then he’s also in the privacy of Jamie’s living room – and then the teams move into position for the haka. Jamie winks at Owen from the other sofa, Elliot chuckling between them where he’s balanced on the footstool, and then it begins.

Maybe it’s not as impressive a spectacle as the one yesterday, just a tour one rather than the World Cup final one, watched by millions around the world, but it’s having exactly the same effect. The camera zooms in on George’s face, flinty eyes hard and jaw set, and Owen has to repress a shudder. Fuck, this is getting out of hand. George looks so in control, so composed, and here Owen is, on the sofa at Jamie’s house, getting all hot and bothered about some Kiwis yelling in sync.

(He won’t berate himself for it, after months of Mick not-quite-but-almost telling him off for doing that, but he’s not sure why he’s so affected.)

It ends soon enough, a mercy and a shame all at once. “Enjoy that?” Elliot asks, eyebrows raised. Jamie had turned the laptop so Owen was in full view and he wasn’t visible, the little shit, and Owen shrugs. He can see what his face looks like in the little box in the corner of the screen, so he can’t defend himself.

“Just excited for the game,” he answers weakly.

“Yes, the game,” Jamie repeats, snickering. “Just like it was _the game_ that made you run off to the loos at halftime yesterday. You know, El, like that time in U18s when-”

“Yeah,” Elliot says, looking far too pleased to be reminded of it than Owen would have liked. “That was fun – and your face afterwards, mate! I genuinely couldn’t tell if you’d figured it out or not.”

“I hadn’t,” he says stiffly. “Anyway, league to be watching, come on.” He looks over the laptop at the television screen, watching as Lolohea spins the ball in his hands a few times before taking the kick to start the match. He’d been right – it’s raining and windy in Hull, which is going to affect both teams’ style of play.

The start of the match isn’t the best, Owen having to furiously sip at his too-hot tea to keep from annoying Jamie with his muttering. Yes, it’s wet, but they shouldn’t be making this many handling errors. New Zealand have scored two converted tries in the first twenty minutes, while England are looking more and more in danger of conceding another.

Jamie and Elliot are chattering on inanely about something that’s definitely not related to the match, so Owen tunes them out with a minimum of guilt and focuses on the game.

He won’t take all the credit for it, but about thirty seconds later Hodgson charges down a kick and slides over for a try, white shirt smeared with mud and surrounded by jubilant teammates. Owen holds his breath as George lines up the kick, then exhales as he slots the ball between the posts. It’s a start – they can work their way back from here.

The New Zealand captain scores a penalty before Brett Ferres gets a try for England just before halftime. They’re going in ahead, but only just.

Owen sits back on the sofa and necks the last few mouthfuls of his cold tea before Jamie and Elliot’s snuffles pierce through his concentration. “What?” he asks irritably. Jamie invited him over to watch the game, not to be the butt of a joke he’s missed.

“Nothing,” Jamie says, holds up his hands. “It’s just nice to see you getting so into things that aren’t directly related to your career.”

Owen narrows his eyes. His eyes are too wide, his innocent expression too carefully cultivated. They’re up to something. Still, he has better things to worry about than whatever the other two are giggling about; George needs to pass the ball flatter, or they’ll never get over the gain line.

With that thought in mind, he pulls out his phone. The chances George will check his phone in the next twelve minutes are slim to non-existent, but it’s worth a try. He’ll feel better within himself, anyway.

He clicks on the group chat, confused by the sight of his own face filling the screen. _Can’t take his eyes off you G_ , Jamie’s captioned it, and that’s not fair, is it? It must have been taken during the haka or not long after it, given the red of his cheeks, but he wasn’t looking at George then. Not for long, at least.

The others have fallen silent, clearly waiting for some reaction, and he refuses to indulge them. Instead, he switches to his chat with just George and texts him his advice. It’s only when he puts his phone away again, the waffling of the pundits filling the room, that he looks up at them.

“I don’t – it’s not fair,” he says, looking between Jamie’s face and the laptop camera. “With his crush, and everything – it’s not nice, to say stuff like that.”

“I know what gay pining looks like,” Elliot says pointedly. “This is a textbook case.”

“Yes, but you shouldn’t encourage him. I’ve got a girlfriend, for fuck’s sake!” General jokes about him being turned on by the haka might be funny, but targeting George’s crush isn’t cool.

“Never said who was doing the pining,” Elliot says, before ducking out of shot like the coward he is.

Owen grinds his teeth. He’s bi, or gay, or something involving liking men in that way, but that doesn’t mean he’s automatically attracted to every guy he meets. He’s kissed Jamie, for crying out loud, and they’d established it did nothing for either of them.

Him, having a crush on George – it’s a stupid idea. He pushes it from his mind. Elliot hasn’t come back yet, and Jamie’s fiddling with the cuffs of his jumper. Vindictively, he’s pleased. They should feel as awkward as he does, and as George will when he sees the message.

They don’t speak for the rest of the break, only starting to talk again when Jamie offers a hesitant comment on Ferres’s second try in the fifty-ninth minute. Owen replies shortly, but the frosty atmosphere begins to melt away. Elliot pops up after George’s fourth kick at goal, brandishing a plate of food at the camera like that excuses his absence, and then it’s almost back to normal.

Almost, but not quite.

England pull ahead, Sean sealing the win with a try three minutes from time, which George converts. The same steely confidence and concentration from earlier is still in his eyes – clearly he hadn’t experienced the same consternation as Owen in the last hour.

The match finishes, and Owen hangs around long enough to hear his uncle’s post-match interview, and then he stands to leave.

“Same time next week?” Jamie asks, reaching out to take his empty cup.

“Yeah.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. It should be fine, if England keep playing in the same way and Elliot and Jamie actually learn not to poke their noses where they’re not wanted. He’d wanted to get a ticket to the game, what with it being held a few miles away at the Olympic Stadium, but the schedule hadn’t allowed it.

“See you then, mate,” Elliot says, waving through the screen.

“Have a good night,” he says awkwardly, before retreating to the hall to put his coat on. It must be something wrong with him, the way all his relationships are sinking into awkwardness at the moment. Georgie’s barely talking to him, Jamie and Elliot have come over all quiet – maybe it would be better if he ignores George for the time being, or at least until they can talk in person again.

He tries to keep himself to himself for the next week, or as much as he can around training and his commitments with the club. It’s not like when he was in the depths of depression – he knows what he’s doing, and it’s a temporary measure. It’s an experiment. He won’t let it last for long.

There’s no repeat of the previous week’s stealthy paparazzi shenanigans from Jamie, although George had seemed more entertained than upset about it when he’d read the message. George might have been okay with it, but Owen can’t shake it. The haka has exactly the same effect on him as before, but this time nobody tries to document it. He’ll take it as a win – it’s not like England do much to make him feel better, losing 2-9 to the Kiwis.

Another week goes by, and he spends more time with Georgie than he has in months. Whether it’s him being at home all the time or his desperate attempts to repress the gay thoughts flooding his mind at all hours of the day, she seems to be happier with him than before.

He’s feeling so – odd, probably the best word for it – about everything that he even manages to go through with it when Georgie initiates sex. It’s not exactly closing his eyes and thinking of England (it would be New Zealand, for starters) but it makes him happy to see her happy. The warm satisfaction he gets from feeling her snuggle into his chest after isn’t the most romantic or sexual of feelings, but it’s nice. It’s better than he’s been for the last couple of weeks, so he’ll take it.

Owen forces himself to go to Jamie’s to watch the final match of the series – George will be home in a few weeks, and he refuses to make him get in the middle of all this awkwardness. Jamie just seems happy to see him, so it’s not as bad as it could have been.

He manages half a joke during the haka, so he must be doing better – either that, or the repeated exposure to it is making him immune. Elliot smiles at him afterwards, more than he probably deserves, and he’s happy. It’s the same feeling, pretty much, as when he’d got through sex with Georgie a few nights ago – purely platonic.

It’s not the best time to have this realisation; he has plenty of rugby to be focusing on, not to mention George’s match happening right in front of his eyes, but it is what it is. England pull out a 20-14 win, decent but not without flaws that he can pick over with Jamie and Elliot. It helps ease the conversation, so he’s grateful for George for that.

Owen gradually eases himself back to his previous level of socialising, now the gay thing has been half sorted. It buzzes around on the fringes of his consciousness almost the whole time, like a fly that’s always a few centimetres from being swatted, but he can live with it, for now. Most of the hard work’s been done – he just needs to get used to saying the words, and then actually tell someone. He’s done it before, so it shouldn’t be too hard.

 _Should_ being operative word – he’s not exactly out to a lot of people as it is.

Still, everything’s almost back to normal, the season trundling along in the runup to Christmas and George scheduled to be back in Harpenden next week, when he gets a text on the group chat, late one evening. It’s from George, and he barely reads it twice before hitting the call button. He might catch him fast enough, seen as he’s called only a few seconds after the message was sent, but – nothing. He grits his teeth, reads the message again, and tries not to panic.

_might have just done something stupid, turning phone off for a few days – everything’s fine, don’t worry_

_see you on the other side_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The return of the links! I got way too into researching for this chapter and finding all the relevant hakas, so I hope you enjoy them.  
> [The haka before the RWC 2015 final.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VTwbKryrhks)  
> [The league haka mentioned.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kDWQ98PO4GI)  
> [This one is not relevant in the slightest but it's very cool, so I'd recommend watching it.](https://youtu.be/obS4m8tOBVA?t=297)
> 
> Also, I’m posting a ‘no Six Nations this week and who wants to think about it anyway’ fic tomorrow afternoon (3pm probably?) so watch out for that :)
> 
> And finally - [Tumblr](https://harlequin87.tumblr.com).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * A [Restricted Work] by [quietcarriagemenace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietcarriagemenace/pseuds/quietcarriagemenace) Log in to view. 




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